


The Labyrinth

by tb_ll57



Series: Crow Rides A Pale Horse [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Orphange, Aurors, Beauxbatons, Dark Creatures, Death Eaters, Durmstrang, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Parseltongue, Sirius Goes Free, Sword of Gryffindor, Teenage Drama, The Knights of Jupiter, The Marauder's Map, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Triwizard Tournament, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), animagi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 125,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: The labyrinth stretched out as far as the horizon, vanishing in mist. Harry swallowed hard. It was time.





	1. To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which We Begin With Good-Bye._

'Do we have any milk around here?'

Remus turned the page as he reached the final sentence, continuing his reading onto the next. 'Finally following my advice and giving your liver a rest?'

Dakota grinned at him. He was a scruffy youngster, barely old enough for the peachfuzz he proudly sported on his pockmarked cheeks. He took teasing with equanimity, a quality that served him well in a den of pointier tempers. And he had a liking for Remus, which was more than anyone else could say. Remus was quite alone in his corner, most nights, with only the comfort of whichever book he'd managed to scrounge from their runs. Dakota had brought him his current one, a stolen library copy of _O Primo Basílio_. Remus didn't read Portuguese, but it occupied the brain, to pretend he was somewhere with nothing but a scholarly pursuit to fill his time. Nothing more urgent than a bit of summer reading.

'Might make a run, then,' Dakota said. 'Take a few of the boys.'

'Do what you like,' Remus told him shortly. He turned a page. 'Be back by nightfall.'

'Know the drill, guvnor. In't my first moon.'

'Might be your last if you don't leave me in peace.'

Dakota laughed. Only one brave or stupid enough to do that. Remus had put others in their place for less. Had to, to maintain control of the unruly packs. This close to so many tempting Muggle targets. He turned a page. His hand shook. 'For what do you need milk, anyway?'

'S'not for me, s'for Greyback.'

'Greyback?'

'Well, s'not for him, really, either. The little nugget he picked up.'

Remus raised his head at this. 'What?'

Too late, Dakota smelled trouble. He shifted guiltily. 'Thought you knew, sir,' he said, more respectfully, angling his head down and his eyes away. 'It was a few days ago.'

'Where is he.' Remus abandoned the book and stood, scanning the yard. His accustomed seat under the cloister gave him a vantage on the garth, and he made a swift head-count. Forty-six, forty-seven-- He took off at a ground-eating pace, Dakota reluctantly dogging at his heels. A raucous game of cards abruptly went silent as he passed, and whispers followed him, sensitive to trouble brewing. They'd had plenty of experience in it. By the time Remus clattered down the crumbling steps into the shade of the fallen arch on the south wall, every eye in the yard was on them, he and the man who sat on a ledge dandling a child on his knee.

Child. A black-haired child of three or four, thick spectacles perched on his runny nose.

'Think I might keep him,' Greyback said, giving the boy a little tickle. The child flinched away from his poke, fresh tears escaping down pale cheeks. 'Been a while since I had a young'un about.'

'Moony.' Peter. At his side, hand on his elbow, exerting cautionary pressure. Remus could barely feel it. The pounding of his heart was an overwhelming drumbeat in his chest, his ears. 'He wants you,' Peter said. 'The delegation's arrived.'

'See you for the moon,' Greyback smirked. 'Boss.'

'Moony.'

He turned on his heel and walked away. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

The monastery was somewhat worse for the wear since they'd taken it over three weeks ago. There was little reason to care for it, as it would be abandoned soon enough. The Muggle groundskeeper had spent a few nights locked in a cabinet before Tom had decided he preferred having a cook on staff-- Dark cohorts had many skills, but they hadn't added an ally who could competently fry fish as of yet. The old man shuffled about in the kitchen, blank-faced as he drained a pot of haricot verts into a sieve in the sink. A dead chicken lay on a cutting board, severed neck dripping red. Peter stopped long enough to pick up the decanter of wine, carrying it with him through to the dining room. Remus made it as far as the door, stopped there by the weight in his stomach, in his heart.

'There you are, Moony. Honestly I don't know where you get to. But good you're here now-- come meet our guests.'

He did as he was bid. Peter had already taken his seat, having poured wine for those of their 'guests' who could imbibe. Remus sat at Tom's right, settling with a creak of leather jacket against the uncushioned wood. The jacket was the sort of absurd costuming that appealed to a teenager, though not nearly so bad as what Tom had chosen for himself. Every self-serious teenager in the world had a penchant for black at some point, but Tom had taken it to an absurd length, swathed in a velvet cape, tied to the chin with a black silk ascot, even his pale fingers decorated with rings of rare black stones with, so Tom claimed, mystical powers. The black sapphire, posed on Tom's right pointer finger where it cast a six-point star whenever it caught the light, had been the first acquisition, retrieved not long after they'd escaped the Chamber of Secrets with Tom newly repossessed of a body. Then they'd gone about the business of repossessing things that had never belonged to Tom at all, seeking treasures to steal whether it had to be done by stealth or by force. The black diamond pin in Tom's ascot and the opal eardrop had come from a dragon's hoard in South Wales. The dragon had met a grim fate, not being open to negotiation: they had a hoard of rare potions components, now. The groundskeeper's first assignment had been cooking the heart for Tom to consume, as he'd read doing so would grant him all the tongues of man and the gods. It had given him dyspepsia for the entire weekend.

At least the vampires appeared to share Tom's sense of the dramatic. There were four of them seated at the table, and five more scattered to cover the exits. The one nearest to Tom on the left came by his costume genuinely: he and his clothes were at least three centuries old, his justacorps of rotting damask giving off the mouldering scent of a creature that rarely emerged from his den. His companions were little better, all of them mildewed, thin and wan, weeks or even months from their last meal. Tom was getting better at identifying an audience who'd welcome his recruitment call.

'We do not meet with his kind,' lisped the vampire at Tom's left, glaring at Remus with blood-red eyes.

Tom covered Remus's hand with his. 'I understand the historic divisions between werewolves and vampires. But the time when there were resources enough to allow us to thrive in separation has gone. The Muggles and Wizardkind alike have destroyed the hunting grounds and consumed our resources like a plague of locusts stripping a corpse. Our corpses. For too long we've allowed our internal divisions to stop us from the one thing that might make us strong enough to rise against them. If we join together, join all our powers, we can strike at our enemies and bring them down.'

The culmination of Tom's impassioned speech was the groundskeeper arriving with a large tray. Slack-jawed, he set the tray in pride of place on the table before Tom, bending in an awkward bow before retreating. He didn't get far. Tom squeezed Remus's hand, nodding. Remus turned his head away as Peter stood. His wave summoned the groundskeeper back to the table. The Muggle tilted his head when ordered to, exposing his throat.

'But we can save the rest of this discussion for after supper,' Tom said urbanely. 'Please, don't stand on ceremony. Eat whilst it's warm.'

The vampires exchanged long looks of longing. 'Very generous,' said the leader, lisp strengthening as his eyeteeth responded to his hunger.

'Generosity between friends,' Tom replied sweetly. 'Moony, help yourself. You'll need your strength for the moon tonight.'

The vampires were surrounding the Muggle, who awaited his fate with no sign he understood what was happening to him. He went down without a sound. Remus closed his eyes.

'Eat your vegetables,' Tom said brightly, spooning a large serving of beans onto Remus's plate.

 

 

 

'I wish you'd at least pretend to enjoy yourself, Moony,' Tom murmured, stroking tenderly through the hair over his temple.

Remus shifted his head on Tom's thigh to check his watch. 'It's nearly time,' he said.

'So impatient.' Tom pressed him back down and resumed his caress. 'You're always so eager to leave me. I'm inclined to pout about it. If I pout, will you scold me?'

'Whatever you'd like me to do, Tom.'

Tom released a heavy sigh somewhere above his head. 'You vex me,' he complained, leaning back against the headboard. 'With such a victory tonight I wanted to celebrate. Our army is growing! Soon we'll be strong enough to strike, and then it's only a matter of time. Won't you be happy then? I'd do anything to make you happy, dearest Moony.'

'I'm happy with you,' Remus said by rote.

'So sweet.' Tom threaded his fingers through Remus's hair. 'Greyback's been pushing his limits, Wormtail says.'

'He was alpha for a long time. He won't be content kneeling to another.'

'He'll content himself kneeling to me.' Tom's hold in his hair tightened. Then relaxed, and soothed, gentle once more, curving down the nape of his neck to the chain of the Moonflower Opal. 'You're contented,' Tom said. 'Sweet Moony.'

'It's nearly moon-rise. I need to go.'

Tom blew out a noisy sigh, and shoved Remus off his lap. 'You can be so tiresome. Fine. Go.'

He rose from the bed, already unbuttoning his shirt. Tom slouched back against the pillows, chewing a thumbnail as Remus undressed, tossing his clothes at the hamper. He shed his watch and, with a moment of hesitation, the gold band he wore on his right wrist. He dragged his fingertip over the scratched surface, but let it go decisively. He shrugged into the loose robe that awaited him, tying it at the waist. He picked up the smoking goblet that stood on a pewter tray-- the communion chalice, thanks to someone's idea of a joke. Or, who knew. It might have been meant as an honour. He stood at Tom Riddle's right hand, and at least some of their growing army took that seriously. He drank the Wolfsbane to the smoking dregs, gagging down the bitter syrup and bracing himself against the edge of the bureau, pulse pounding in his ears.

'What is it like?'

'What do you want me to say?'

'I only asked what it's like for you.'

'There's nothing to tell. It is what it is.'

'I only--'

'It's hell. That's what it's like. What the fuck do you want me to say?'

Tom paled. He picked at his fingernails, then abruptly yanked the jewellery from his fingers, his neck, flung his diamond cloak clasp to the carpet. Remus stopped him when he tried to rip out the opal eardrop, smearing away a bead of blood and enfolding Tom to his chest. 'Shh,' he said, 'don't do that. There's no good being upset.'

'You vex me,' Tom mumbled tremulously. 'I don't know why you vex me so much.'

'I'm sorry. I won't do it again.'

'I just wanted--'

'I know.' He picked up the gems scattered on the floor, pocketing them in the robe as he sat on the edge of the bed. He wrapped his arm about Tom's shoulder, and Tom shuddered against him. Remus soothed him, staring at the wall.

'You should go,' Tom whispered. 'The wolves will be waiting on you.'

Some may have already begun their transformation. The moon was visible in the sky, out the window. Full, yellow, low on the purpling horizon. A menace making its way toward the stars, where it would watch them ride out to commit their horrors. And then they'd be gone tomorrow, off to a new hide away by some unfortunate village, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.

'Wait,' Tom said, as Remus stood. 'Kiss me good night.'

Tom's wrinkled forehead smoothed under his thumb. 'Sleep well,' Remus told him, and bent to brush his mouth over the same spot. 'I'll see you again in the morning.'

'I'll have your favourite breakfast for you.'

'You fed the cook to the vampires,' Remus reminded him, and rose to go. 'Good night, Tom. Rest easy. You're another night closer to your dreams.'

Peter loitered waiting in the corridor. 'You want me with you?' he asked, looking up from his watch. 'There's getting to be too many for you to watch them all at once.'

'Two was too many for me to watch all at once,' Remus told him shortly, turning right up the corridor toward the cloister. Already he could hear the screams of men and women gripped by the curse. Those screams would be howls shortly. 'How long before the Aurors track us? A group this large can't hide forever. All it takes is one Auror who follows a werewolf home to its lair instead of killing it on sight.'

'They know where we are,' Peter said. 'We're allowed to exist. There have always been those in the Ministry who turn a blind eye, for money or favours. Some even believe.' Peter trailed him, scurrying to keep up with Remus's longer legs. 'I know this isn't the way you want to do it--'

'You don't know me,' Remus told him tightly, lengthening his stride even more. 'You know nothing about me.'

'Moony.'

He whirled with a fist raised. Peter flinched, throwing up an arm to protect himself. Coward, Remus thought, but even as he thought it the fire died, and he let his hand fall. What did it matter? Nothing. Nothing at all.

He touched the jewels in his pocket. Tugged a loose thread free from the pocket's seam, wrapping it tight around his finger till it numbed. The moon was calling.

'Get inside,' he said dully. 'And make sure they ward the doors properly. I don't want a repeat of the last moon.'

Peter swallowed hard. 'I'll take care of it myself.'

He stepped through an arch into the moonlight. Silver on his skin. It burnt like ice. Another step, on legs gone rubbery, into the shelter of an old elm that shielded him just a moment longer. He set his shoulder to the thick trunk, let it hold him up as the moonlight thrummed through him, re-weaving him into something else--

He fumbled the ring from his pocket, the black sapphire. The rest he left in the robe as he shed it to the grass. He drew a few deep breaths, for courage, unable to stop himself, sucking at air gone soupy in his lungs. One minute more. One minute more--

But then the moon took him, and there was nothing more he could do but wait for the sunrise.

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

The tawny owl that tapped at the window startled the man sleeping on the bed into a snort and a cough. Sirius rolled to bury his face in a mound of pillows, hurling one of them at the window. It took out a pair of empty bottles on the nightstand on its way to the carpet, and the clatter elicited a groan from the bed.

Regulus left his seat on the chair by the fire, stopping first to right the bottles and then to open the window. The owl delivered its letter, accepting a stale biscuit from the plate that had sat abandoned since Dobby had left it there for tea hours ago. Satisfied its task was complete, the owl winged away into the rising sun.

Regulus overturned the envelope, checking the return address to guage its urgency. It was the third letter from Albus Dumbledore in as many days. It had been as many days, however, since Sirius had left the bed. It didn't seem likely that would change today. Regulus set it on the pile with the rest of the post that had gone unopened during this most recent bender.

A rap at the door interrupted him as he was seating himself again. 'Come,' Regulus said softly, finishing his downward motion and taking up his book. The door creaked, just slightly, and there stood Harry, sleepy-eyed, hair mussed, in his terrycloth housecoat, feet bare in the summer warmth. Regulus patted the arm of the empty chair beside him, and Harry shuffled in.

'Dobby would bring you tea,' Regulus murmured, folding the book closed and letting it rest in his lap.

'I don't think he's awake yet.' Harry rubbed a fist at his eyes. Without his glasses he could do little but squint, but there was nothing new to see in the bed, anyway. A drunk who snored away another morning. Harry's youthful features wore a look too old for a thirteen year old boy. His fingers twitched toward the bed, then curled in a fist on his knee.

'Our father drank,' Regulus said. He rubbed the pages of the book against his thumb. He could feel such sensations only intermittently, his imperfect nerves that had been dead for nearly as long as the boy beside him had been alive. When he did it again, there was nothing but the faintest sensation, barely a tingle. 'Sirius is more like him, our father, than I am. I'm more like our mother. I feared that, growing up. I would lie awake at night wondering how the madness would come on me-- so slowly I'd fail to notice, or so quickly I'd never stand a chance against it. Sirius... he was a comfort to me then. He'd tell me we had a choice. That if we were strong we could choose, and it was the choice that mattered. We wouldn't be like them if we didn't want to be.'

'He'll be better when school starts,' Harry said. 'Won't he? He'll have to teach classes.'

'Maybe.'

They sat in silence for a time, watching the fire burn low. 'Ron said I could come over today,' Harry said, after several minutes had passed like that. 'Do you want to come? We'll play Quidditch. I know you were on your House team.'

'I don't think the Weasleys are very comfortable with me,' Regulus replied quietly. 'But thank you for the offer.'

'They just need to get to know you. You hardly leave the cottage.'

'Harry,' he said. 'You don't need to care after all of us. It's not your job.'

There was no answer to that. Harry had perfected selective deafness over the course of the summer. And, Regulus thought, the rest of them had perfected a selective blindness of their own. Harry looked careworn, in the growing light of day. He looked like he hadn't slept in a fortnight. He didn't look thirteen, not even the thirteen of a boy who'd done what he'd done at eleven and twelve and survived to see another birthday. A summer full of tutors and training had left little time for recreation as simple as a Quidditch game with friends. Harry's world was too much adults, these days, adults who told rather than listened. Adults who thought they knew best and weren't soliciting opinions. Regulus remembered that, in the hazy way he remembered his living years. He'd never been rebellious, like Sirius; he'd never fought his parents, never dared to tell them no. He'd imagined he respected them, loved them. Loved them enough to live with them, to die for them.

I don't wish that for you, he thought, looking at the boy who'd brought him back and given him another life to live. And maybe Harry was right, anyway. There was more than this.

'Do you think the Weasleys would let all of us come?'

Harry's head rose from contemplating the ashes. A tentative smile came over his mouth. 'Maybe we could bring a picnic?' he suggested. 'We have time to bake a cake. Well, for Dobby to bake a cake.'

'That's a good idea.' He set his book aside, and rose. 'Go wake Lyall. I'll take care of Sirius.'

'Okay.' Harry stood as well, and leant forward, squeezing Regulus tight enough for him to feel it, and holding long enough for Regulus to return it carefully, patting Harry's back gently. Harry left him with more skip in his step than Regulus had seen since July. Yes. This was good.

He palmed his wand, wrapping it carefully in his grip. His spells still tended to go wonky, but he had worked on this one only just the other day, a first-year spell he'd always had a particular propensity for-- an irony, given how he'd died, that his element had always been water.

' _Aguamenti,'_ he cast, and a spout of water erupted from his wand, fountaining downward to drench his unfortunate victim. Sirius shot upright with a yell, vainly trying to fight off the water that was swiftly soaking him and his bed. He spluttered and gurgled against the current of it til Regulus decided he'd had enough, and cut the flow. Well, tried. It took a few extra _Finites_.

'The hell,' Sirius moaned at him, wiping his bedraggled hair off his face and sluicing water in all directions. 'Merlin's tit, did you dump half the Black Lake on me?'

'Not quite. I'd be happy to finish the job.'

'No!' Sirius flung out a hand to stop him, scrambling awkwardly in the soaked sheets to leave the bed. He hit the floor and kept on sinking, holding his head. 'Ohhh, bugger.'

'We're going out,' Regulus told him. 'All of us. That includes you.'

'Why, did we run out of Firewhiskey?'

'Good idea. Dobby,' Regulus called, and the house elf answered the summons as he always did, though he forgot himself enough to squawk his indignation when he saw the mess Regulus had made him. 'Er, sorry,' Regulus said. 'I'll clean that. I only meant to tell you to dump out all the liquor. Oh, and we need a cake. We're all going to the Weasleys' today.'

Dobby hid his grin behind his long ears. 'At once, Mister Black. Will Master Potter be needing soap for his bath?'

'He will,' Regulus answered on brother's behalf, since Sirius only glared. 'I suppose we could leave it up to him to decide whether he wants it here or in the actual tub.' The gesture Sirius made was not fit for polite company. Regulus bared his teeth in a grin of his own. 'Here it is, then.'

'No, damn you,' Sirius growled, hauling himself upright, swaying for a moment before he made good on his own two feet. 'Out of curiosity, which is admittedly not all that easy to feel past this raging headache, why are we doing this now instead of some other day?'

'Because your son deserves a good day.' Regulus considered his brother, wondering at him. 'That still means something to you, I see.'

'You're not holier than me, Reggikins.'

'Prove it.'

Those two words had been enough to spark battles between them from their infancy. Good for an invitation to raid the pantry, to prank their old house elf Kreacher, to read from the forbidden grimoires in the library. To duel, once they'd been on opposing sides at Hogwarts. That familiar belligerence was there in Sirius's face, summoned in a heartbeat, but just as quickly it faded, and a look he was becoming more familiar with these days replaced it.

'Don't be sorry,' Regulus cut him off. 'Just be there for him. For me.'

Sirius dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. 'Dobby,' he said quietly. 'I could really use one of your hangover cures.'

'Dobby will bring it, Master Potter,' the house elf promised. 'And a pot of coffee and some stale bread.' Dobby raised a hand, and lowered it. 'Mister Black swears he will clean the bed?' he asked Regulus.

'Mister Black swears,' Regulus promised, cocking an eyebrow at Sirius.

'Mister Black swears,' Sirius repeated glumly. 'After a bath. A real bath, you unbelievable wanker.'

 

 

 

'Can I ask you...'

Regulus let the wind drag him to a natural stop, relaxing his grip on the broom to flex his tingling fingers. 'You can ask,' he replied.

Ginny Weasley sat her broom with the ease of someone born to fly, and far too skilled to be relegated to defence, but that was the fate of the littlest Weasley and the deadest Black. Regulus shaded his eyes to watch Sirius and Harry battling it out over the Golden Snitch, before it escaped them to zip away. 'Do you get sunburnt?' Ginny blurted at him, and he turned his head toward her. 'Only I get a terrible sunburn too, my mum says I'm to stay in the shade one hour for every hour I'm out in the sun.'

Regulus smiled. 'I don't know,' he answered honestly. 'It's possible. I couldn't heal it, if I were to be.'

'So you're... you're really dead?'

'It's complicated,' he said.

'Oh.' Ginny sat back on her broom, cocking a freckled knee on the handle before her. 'It seems like everything is complicated, when it comes to Harry.'

'Harry would be the first to agree with you.'

'Gin.' It was Charlie Weasley, swooping down from the treetops to greet them with an easy grin. 'Mum's got lemonade and cake for everyone, if we call a time-out. Hi, Regulus.'

'Hi,' Regulus said, surprised to be directly addressed.

'Good time to show Harry the barn,' Charlie suggested to his sister. 'You know the Weasley boys and food-- everyone'll be distracted. Have him all to yourself for a private tour.'

Ginny's radiant blush answered well enough what was meant by that. She hurriedly removed herself, landing at a gallop and headed for the crowd of gingers at the impromptu lawn party. The ginger nearest Regulus, however, lingered in the air, apparently in no rush. Regulus waited on him, sensing an interrogation in the offing, wondering if it would be as sweet-natured as Ginny's. Suspecting it wouldn't be.

'You still consider yourself nineteen?' Charlie asked eventually, turning his chin up to a bit of errant breeze.

'I hadn't thought about it.'

'Suppose it's a long list you've got, things to think of now.'

'Suppose so.'

'You wanna go for a walk? There's a little lake nearby. We could fish for dinner.'

'I've never fished,' he said slowly. 'I think, anyway.'

'No time to learn like the present. Not that hard with magic, anyway, to be honest.'

'My spells are a little--'

'Not according to Sirius.' Charlie grinned, white teeth in a tanned face. He had Ginny's freckles, too, a scattering across his long nose and broad cheeks. 'We'll do it like Muggles, then, and you won't be any worse at it than I am.'

There was nothing for it but to follow Charlie down to ground. They left their broomsticks propped up against the shed, and Charlie made a quick run to his father's garage, returning with two long poles. He propped them both on a broad shoulder and nodded toward a footpath headed into the trees. 'Too bad you don't drink,' he added off-handedly. 'Fishing's better with beer.'

'I didn't drink before, either.'

'No? Never stole a sip from your dad's stash or paid an older student to get you a bottle from Hogsmeade?'

'I saw enough of it at home.' See enough of it, he thought, and did not say. Maybe Sirius would change. Maybe Sirius couldn't, and it wasn't his fault anyway.

'Look,' Charlie said suddenly, grabbing his wrist. He pointed, and Regulus turned his head, following the finger guiding his sight. He didn't resist when Charlie dragged him into the shelter of a shrub, knelt clumsily beside him and tried to see what he was meant to see.

'Perce and Oliver,' Charlie murmured against his cheek. 'Sneaking off to snog.'

Ah. He could see it, now he knew what he was seeing. Two boys sat together in the shade of a tree, twined in a loving embrace. They broke for air, to whisper sweetly to each other, hands clasped, lips seeking. Charlie whuffed a laugh, and tugged him away, and Regulus followed him back to the path.

'Nice to see someone happy,' Charlie commented, when they had left the boys behind out of earshot. 'Been precious little of that around here, since Bill.'

'Your brother?' The one who'd died in the Chamber. Regulus remembered.

'Sorry. I try not to be maudlin.'

'There's more than enough to mourn.'

'That's maudlin,' Charlie said. 'There's the lake, just up ahead. See the pier? We're headed for that.'

The 'pier' was only a few planks of wood jutting out over a weedy shoreline. Charlie led the way, and Regulus followed. He followed, too, when Charlie shed his shoes to the pier and sat so his legs hung off the edge and dangled his feet in the water. Regulus sat beside him, pleased to discover he could feel the cool lake water quite well, peculiar though it looked to see his pale flesh dragging little eddies through the wet as he swung his legs. Charlie set bait on the hooks, little plastic worms in unlikely neon colours. Regulus took a pole, and they cast the lines into the lake.

'You don't mind?' Regulus asked then. 'About your brother.'

'Bill?'

'Percy.'

'Nah.' Charlie shrugged. 'Take love where you find it, that's my motto. What about you? You mind?'

'Percy?'

'Sirius.'

'I would have once.' Sirius never talked about the past. Not even deep in drink. It could be that what Regulus remembered of their childhood was incorrect, or only half the truth, which would be more dangerous. Little of what he remembered was good, but he remembered Sirius, remembered the worship he'd felt once for his older brother, who had been everything handsome and resilient and wild, unbowed, when everything in their lives had striven to force them to kneel. 'But only because I would have believed love makes you weak.'

'And why would you have believed that?'

'It did make me weak. I loved our family. They didn't deserve it. I knew, but I loved them anyway.'

'I can't decide,' Charlie said. He tugged experimentally at his line, but left it in the water. 'If you're the most tragic person I've ever met, or just the most confused.'

Regulus considered that. 'Does it make much difference?'

Charlie whuffed another little laugh. 'No,' he said. 'No, not really.'

'Why are you talking to me?'

'You looked like someone interesting to talk to.'

'Am I, then?'

'Passing fair.'

Regulus suspected this was a weakness, too, but he could no more help than ever. He smiled. And then he laughed, for the first time since his return from the dead.

They never did catch any fish.

The Quidditch game had never resumed, it seemed, but the picnic had been suspended, too. Their return garnered no attention, as there was no-one left outside to see them coming in from the lake. Charlie shrugged it off, stowing away their poles and taking Regulus round the back to the kitchen. He nabbed himself a pudding from the pan that had been left to stand on the stove, offered one to Regulus and winked before retracting it. They proceeded toward the voices raised in argument in the Floo hall.

'You're not going,' Sirius was telling Harry. He was throwing on his coat, running a hand through his hair-- Regulus knew it for a sign of nerves. Sirius caught sight of him over Harry's head, but the sight of his brother brought no relief. 'Reg, take Harry home,' he called. 'Now.'

'I want to go with you!' Harry shouted. For a boy with a rather shy nature, Harry could make himself heard when he wished to. The Weasleys nearest him were wincing.

'What's going on?' Charlie asked his father. Mr Weasley stood watching with a troubled expression, his arms crossed over his chest, but he moved then, to take Harry by the shoulders.

'We'll watch him here,' he offered. 'He can stay as long as you need.'

'Thanks, Arthur, but he's safest at home. Scrimgeour's sending an Auror team to shore up the wards.' Sirius took Harry by the chin. 'Listen to me-- listen to me, Harry. You're to go straight inside and stay there. No peering out windows, no using the Floo, no asking Dobby to carry messages anywhere--'

'Sirius, I want to see him!'

'Get him home, Reg.'

'All right,' Regulus agreed, just to preserve the peace, but Harry threw him a look of betrayal that said he'd chosen wrong. 'I'm sorry, what's happened?'

'It's RJ,' Lyall said. 'They've found him.'

'And I want to see him!'

'They found Remus?' Regulus repeated dumbly.

'I'm going to the Ministry now,' Sirius said, taking the Floo powder pot Mrs Weasley extended. 'I don't know when I'll be back, there's bound to be questioning for hours, days--' His hand shook too much, and the first attempt at flinging the powder scattered it across the hearthstone instead of tossing it into the flames. Harry took his hand. He reached, this time, and threw in the powder for him. Sirius pulled him close, hiding his eyes in Harry's wild hair.

'Go,' Regulus told them. 'Go see him. You both-- all of you need to see him. Harry will be safest at the Ministry, and I'll-- I'll wait for you.'

Sirius nodded. His eyes were wet when he raised his head. He gripped Regulus's elbow, short and hard, and then guided Harry into the flames. 'Da, follow us, we'll wait on the other side,' he said. 'Reg--'

'Go,' Regulus urged him.

'Percy, I need to borrow Errol,' Ron hissed, not at all quietly, and the tense silence that had gripped the house vanished into chaos.

'No sending owls til we know whether we can talk about this,' Arthur warned his sons en masse, but went ignored, as they were disappearing in all directions, one fetching parchment and quill, one headed outdoors to the roost, the twins rampaging up the stairs already intensely conferencing. 'No telling any of these details to that not-so-secret society of yours!'

Regulus helped Lyall into the Floo, throwing the powder for him. 'You're going to the Ministry,' he reminded the old man. 'Say it when you're ready. Sirius will be there.' He stepped back, feeling the flash of heat as a momentary warmth on his skin, fading nearly too quickly to be sure it was real. Then Mr Weasley was politely bumping Regulus out of the way, kneeling on the stones to Firecall Albus Dumbledore.

'Dobby can go see to the cottage,' the house elf told Regulus, tugging at his shirt sleeve. 'To secure the wards.'

'Thank you, Dobby. Can you take me as well?'

'I'll take you,' Charlie said, appearing from the kitchen with their shoes and coats. 'We can Floo through as soon as Dad's done.'

'I can sit in an empty house by myself.'

'Can, but won't be,' Charlie said, but though he was smiling he was quite serious. 'If Remus is back, who knows but that Tom Riddle's out there somewhere striking whilst we're all distracted. You're a target. And I'll be standing guard til we get those Aurors in place.' He put Regulus's shoes in front of him, pointed outwards ready to slide into, and slung his coat over his shoulders. This time Regulus was sure of the warmth, as Charlie's hands settled onto his shoulders, pressing lightly. 'Say "thank you, Charlie, you're a scholar and a gentleman."'

'I don't need protecting.'

'You're welcome anyway.' Charlie gave him a gentle squeeze. 'You look like you've seen a ghost. And I don't just mean your skintone.'

If he had a heartbeat left to thunder, it might have been thunder in his ears just then. As it was, there was something unhappy in his gut, worry and guilt and the sudden urge to go looking for a cupboard to hide in, as he'd done whenever Mother had gone on one of her ravings. He curled his hands into fists.

'If Remus is back... if Remus is back, they don't need me anymore,' he breathed.

'I promise that is not true.' Charlie met his eyes, so sincere that even that smallest of comforts seemed reasonable, as if Charlie had the power to promise anything at all and order the universe at will. Charlie squeezed him again. 'And more's the pity, Remus isn't really back. You know how it'll happen. They won't just release him from custody. Questioning's only the start. They'll need you more than ever, because they'll be absolutely wrecks, all of them. You'll be the one they can lean on.'

He pressed his hand to his stomach. To his chest, where the ache seemed to be, that impossibility. He managed a nod, though it felt like moving marble. 'Thank you.'

'Good man,' Charlie said. 'Let's get you home then.'

 


	2. Shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Memory Bends Toward Imagination._

It wasn't just Harry's imagination. The Ministry for Magic for the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was a cold, miserable place. It was cold and miserable because there were Dementors stationed at every entry point.

'They're controlled,' Auror Savage told them as he met them coming out of the Floo. 'I hope the Boy Who Lived Again can stand a little discomfort.'

'How are they controlled?' Harry wondered, shuddering as they hurried past one of the ghastly creatures. Its hooded head turned to follow their passage. The depth of shadow where a face should have been was horrible. Harry glued his eyes to his feet.

'Patroni,' Savage said, pointing out the luminescent glow of an entire zoo's worth of ghostly animals that pranced a perimetre about the Dementors. Wizards' patronuses-- patroni, evidently-- had been used at Hogwarts, too, to keep the Dementor guardians at bay. Someone had a Patronus of a giraffe.

'How--'

'Later, Harry,' Sirius snapped. He was hurrying Lyall as fast as could be done, but Lyall hardly moved swiftly at the best of times, dependent as he was on his canes, and he'd been slowed even more by a stroke last year.

One thing that remained true of all Harry's visits to the Ministry, increased security or otherwise, was that traversing it when one was frightened, impatient, or in a rush inevitably felt like the longest journey ever undertaken. There was the trek through the lobby, an endless marble stretch of hallway that led toward the lifts, particularly the secure lift to the cells where Aurors held prisoners, rattling between floors on a journey unsettlingly like the goblin-run mining carts that took account holders to their vaults beneath Gringotts Bank. Then it was a long walk through the underground cells, closed doors to either side of a long airless corridor guarded by more Dementors. Sirius was all clenched jaw and haunted eyes, and he barely acknowledged Harry taking his hand.

At last, however, they arrived. Savage stayed them with a gesture, and approached the Dementor guarding the door alone. Words were exchanged, but then Savage offered up his wand to be examined by the thing. It floated aside, willingly enough, but it was watching them, Harry could feel it, from the depths of that hood. Did it even have eyes? But then Savage was escorting them through to a small antechamber, an empty room with a large window in the far wall-- and Remus on the other side of that window.

Harry ran to it. He heard Savage grouchily order him back, but ignored it. It was Remus, it was him, he looked-- he looked thin, he looked immeasurably weary, dark shadows under his eyes, his hands limp on thighs. Manacled hands. He wore a thin grey shirt from which his bare legs protruded like sticks, and on his legs, on his arms as well, there were scars, half-healed, red and raw, from claws and teeth. He was answering questions in a low monotone, asked by Kingsley Shacklebolt who was recording every answer meticulously with quill and parchment.

Something about that sight, the quill and inkpot Kingsley was dipping it in, nagged at Harry. He'd never seen an Auror investigation before, but he had given evidence for one-- Aurors took memories to examine. Why wouldn't they be doing that now? And, come to think of it, it wasn't the only strange thing about this room. For one, Harry found he was quite warm, even hot. Yet outside it had been freezing cold, because of the Dementors. You could feel them even through doors, even through walls, he'd discovered that when Dementors came to guard Hogwarts his first year. They sucked away all your happiness and good memories, left you shivering in despair. Yet he felt fine. Worried for Remus, but not at all as awful as he should feel, with a Dementor standing-- floating-- just outside.

'Magic-suppressing wards,' Savage told him. 'Nothing magical will work in here. None of ours, but, more importantly, none of his. Who knows what curses or traps Riddle laid on him? Get a chair for the old man,' he ordered one of the Aurors who had followed them. A moment later, someone returned with a Muggle folding chair for Lyall.

'Riddle sent him?' Sirius demanded, joining Harry at the window. His hand flattened to the glass of the window, barred from entry. 'Can he see us?'

'It's a mirror on his side. Muggle invention.' Savage leant against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. 'He claims to have escaped. During the full moon last night.'

Savage knocked at the window. Inside, Kingsley's head rose from his writing. It must have been a pre-arranged signal, because he seemed to know what was wanted of him. He readied his quill again, and said, 'Go back to last night, if you will. Describe again how you were able to leave the compound.'

Remus rubbed at his face, his shoulders tightening and then slumping. 'Wolfsbane,' he said wearily. 'I'm the only one who uses it. It enables me to oversee the other werewolves, to direct them, to the extent that's possible. It keeps my mind human.'

'That's a prison sentence right there,' Savage said, eyes on Sirius, who glared in return. 'There's been a rash of murders, kidnappings, and bites across the country. Not to mention the attack at Crowhill Boys Home in January. If he's directing the werewolves who did it, that lays the responsibility at his feet.'

'It wasn't werewolves who destroyed the Home,' Sirius retorted. 'And I'd say the responsibility is all Tom Riddle's, or is there some other megalomaniac out there Dark Lording it across the home counties?'

'Were you using the Wolfsbane Potion the entire time?' Kingsley asked Remus.

'Not at first. That was the point of this.' A chain about his neck. A strange jewel. Harry recalled it from the Chamber of Secrets: it was a Moonflower Opal, a magical stone that captured moon rays. And werewolves were helpless in the light of the moon-- their curse was a transformation from human beings into some terrible hybrid, compelled by the moon to spread their curse through any means necessary.

'How--' Sirius began.

'Goblin made,' Savage answered immediately. 'The chain, at least. It was made with magic, but it's not magical in and of itself. We can't get it off him. Hence this room. At least the Opal doesn't work in here.'

'So why begin using the Wolfsbane?' Kingsley wondered.

'Only during the full moons. And I had to wait. He had to be persuaded I could be trusted out of his sight. Peter had to be persuaded. It was crucial that I had to be aware enough to separate from the other werewolves, to get far enough away by moonset that I could Apparate to the Ministry. And that you'd be able to get me behind wards fast enough, before he'd realise. I almost made it last month, but Peter followed us. And...'

'And?' Kingsley repeated.

'And I didn't have this, then.' Remus wet his lips. 'What I'm going to show you-- Dumbledore must know.'

'You know he's been expelled from the Wizengamot,' Kingsley said cautiously. 'He has no authority over Auror operations.'

'No. But he is my legal representative. He took me on as a ward of Hogwarts when I was eleven, to ensure I could attend school like all the normal humans.' Remus smiled bitterly. 'I haven't been on good terms with my guardian in many years, but the wardship was never suspended. At the least, you'll have to notify him I've been arrested. And I think everyone involved would agree it's in all our best interests to tell him the details. He may not be the Chief Warlock anymore, but he's the only man to have duelled Tom Riddle and won. And he's got Harry Potter. Harry Potter needs to know this.'

'Know what, Lupin?'

'Don't be alarmed. This isn't a weapon.' There was a moment's awkwardness with the manacles, but Remus raised his hands, and dug a fingernail at a tooth in the back of his jaw. He gagged, as his hand withdrew, pinching something between thumb and forefinger-- a thread, just barely visible as Harry squinted, trying to understand what he was watching. Remus doubled over the table, coughing out a thin liquid over his hands as he pulled at the thread. Kingsley was on his feet in alarm, useless wand in hand, but he hesitated on what to do, and so did nothing. Remus gave a hard yank, and something metal clattered against the table.

'The hell is this?' Kingsley marvelled, shaking out a kerchief from his pocket to pick up the metal thing. He lifted it to show them through the mirror, and Harry stood on his tip-toes to see. It looked like a ring. A fancy ring like the kind Mr Malfoy liked to wear, with an oddly-shaped black stone. 'How...?'

Remus was wiping his hands on his garment. 'There was no other way to keep it on me,' he said hoarsely. 'I wouldn't have been able to wear it through the transformation, but there's an old trick for Muggle magicians. Swallowing keys on a thread, so they can escape locked trunks and such. I'd had the idea, but not the opportunity.'

'What is it, though?'

'It's a Horcrux.'

Kingsley was not the only one stunned by this. They all stood taken aback, and even Savage looked shocked. 'He swallowed a damn Horcrux?' he gaped.

'A Horcrux.' Kingsley shook his head as if to clear it. 'You Know Who's, or Riddle's?'

'Voldemort's. Though he made it not long after the diary. It belonged to a man called Marvolo Gaunt,' Remus explained. 'An heirloom of the House of Gaunt. They claimed to be descendents of--'

'Slytherin,' Sirius whispered along. 'They're one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Inbred idiots, by the end. Died out decades ago, I think.'

'And how'd you come by it?' Kingsley was asking Remus.

'We went there after... after Crowhill.' Remus closed his eyes a moment, unable to go on. He drew a breath that shook. 'He'd been planning it as a student. How to make more Horcruxes. There was no guarantee Voldemort hadn't changed his mind after the diary was created, but Tom had an idea at least of the likeliest candidates. There was a ring and a locket. He'd found the locket when he first opened the Chamber, but we couldn't determine what had become of it if Voldemort did make a Horcrux of it after he left Hogwarts. The ring, though, that was where Tom thought it would be. He'd-- his older self-- had hidden it in a place significant to him. His father's grave.'

'His father?' Kingsley gingerly set down the ring, to take up his quill again. 'Is he aware of his origins? Dumbledore thought he mightn't be-- whilst he was at Hogwarts he was thought to be Muggleborn, though it seems he told his closest associates he believed himself to be secretly related to a Pureblood of significant stature.'

'It's a source of great humiliation for him. "Secretly related" is code for bastard-- he supposed it was more glamourous to be some rich Pureblood's by-blow abandoned to a Muggle orphanage than a Muggleborn with no status whatsoever. Whether it's true or not, I don't really know, though the grave certainly existed where he thought it would be. There was a Riddle family, Muggles, in north Yorkshire. A village called Little Hangleton.' Remus massaged his throat, slumped back in his chair. 'He thought it was possible that he could reconstitute the Horcruxes. Or at least utilise their power. The ring and the wands are the only ones he could find, though.'

'The wands?'

'His own wand-- Peter had that. Lily's wand. He took it from Harry in the Chamber.' Remus sat in silence for a moment, but before Kingsely could prod him he went on. 'I couldn't bring the wands. The ring was the only one I could get out. I'm sorry.'

Kingsley glanced toward the window, where his audience was waiting tensely. 'Do you know anything about destroying the Horcruxes? Did he talk about that at all?'

'So far as I know, the only thing that can destroy a Horcrux is separating the soul from the object that binds it. As we did the diary. But it didn't destroy the soul fragment. I don't know if that can be destroyed. We searched, for any texts that could tell us anything about Horcruxes. Some had been destroyed. Others bought up by an unknown buyer, years ago. It could be the elder Voldemort who collected them, but Peter knew nothing about it, which suggests to me the other Death Eaters wouldn't know, either. I suspect Voldemort was too paranoid in his later years to entrust anyone with knowledge that important. The only other wizard who might have known to get those texts out of circulation is Dumbledore.'

'Back to Dumbledore.'

'Most roads lead to Dumbledore.'

'True.' Kingsley smiled for that, though it dropped off his face slowly. 'Is that what you did for Riddle, then? Search for these things? Direct his army of werewolves? He seems to have trusted you quite a lot.'

'You don't trust a slave,' Remus rasped. 'He controlled me completely. That was all that mattered to him. Mostly I... mostly I listened. He was a very lonely boy, in his way. The only approval he ever had was his professors at school, but that soured as they realised the direction of his ambition beneath the charm. He could talk for hours— days, sometimes. So I listened.'

'What would he talk about?'

'He's not a real boy.' Remus rolled his head toward the mirror, but whether he knew it had people behind it wasn't clear from his face. His hand at his throat gripped til his fingernails dug white divets in his flesh. 'He's what the real Tom Riddle wrote in a diary. Mad plans. His resentment, his rage. His hatred. But also all these... all these unfulfilled longings and yearning to be loved. To love someone else. But he's incapable of it. He's twisted. And he twists everyone around him and everything, til you're as ruined as he is.'

Kingsley checked a pocketwatch, and reluctantly set down his quill. 'I think we should take a break,' he said, rising. 'You want anything, tea or a sandwich? The loo?'

'Nothing. Thank you.'

Kingsley hesitated, but in the end he did press his hand to Remus's shoulder. 'Let's secure the ring,' he told the window, gingerly lifting the kerchief to wrap it up tight.

Savage opened the door to go in, headed for Kingsley. But he didn't shut the door fast enough behind him, and Sirius wasn't paying any attention to the ring-- Sirius went shoving through the door and into the interrogation chamber, and went straight to Remus, and swept Remus into his arms.

'Moony,' Sirius cried. But Remus flinched from him, face turning away even as Sirius tried to kiss him. Savage hauled him off a moment later, but both men were shaken, Remus hunching to rest his head against the table, curled in on himself.

'Don't call me that.' Remus gripped his hands in his hair, pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't call me that.'

'Lord Potter,' Savage said, pushing Sirius back toward the door. Sirius resisted, and Lyall took the opportunity to go through, too, trying to reach his son. 'Damn it, both of you, get back there!'

Harry was the only one left standing at the mirror. But it was the strangest thing. His feet were moving without his conscious direction. It was calling to him. Just the faintest pulse, but he could feel it. He walked through the door, too, stepping wide around Savage trying to drag Sirius back to the anteroom. Kingsley saw him coming and stopped, eyes wide, as Harry approached him. He didn't protest at all as Harry reached for the kerchief. The twist of linen fell open in Harry's palm, and there it sat, the ring.

When he looked up, it was to find every eye in the place on him. But only one pair mattered. Harry clenched his hand around the ring.

'Thank you, Remus,' he said.

Remus's face was wet. He scraped it away with the side of his hand, breathing as if it hurt. He nodded tightly. 'Anything for you, Harry. Everything.'

'I know.' Harry managed a querelous smile. 'The most important thing is you, though. I don't care about any of it. Just you.'

'He will come for you.'

'I've known that.' He gnawed his lower lip. 'We're doing our best to be ready.'

'Don't tell me anything.' Remus at last looked away, dragging his hands through his hair again, like claws. He steepled his fingers at his mouth, pressing them there as if holding in his demons. 'I can't guarantee he won't still have power over me. The minute I leave this room I'm vulnerable. I can't... I can't stop him.'

'We will.'

'I hope to God.' Remus was crying. Tears rolled down his gaunt cheeks unheeded. Harry told himself not to be deterred, to expect it, when Remus cringed away from him just as he'd done from Sirius, but nonetheless Harry did it, used Kingsley's kerchief to blot gently at Remus's face. Remus took his hands, gripping them tight enough to hurt, but then as if he couldn't bear even that much touch he let go and turned away again. 'I'm sorry,' he breathed.

'It's all right,' Harry said helplessly. 'You're home, you'll... you'll get better.'

'Right, that's enough for now,' Savage said, breaking the fragile silence. 'You lot, all of you, back outside. You can't be in here til we've finished our questions.'

'And he can't leave here til you've called on Gringotts,' Lyall interjected.

'Gringotts?'

'Da, you're confused,' Sirius sighed.

'I'm not either,' Lyall retorted peevishly. 'If that chain about my son's neck is goblin made you've got to have goblins here to break it. And the nearest source of goblins is Gringotts, unless I'm very much mistaken.'

'Goblins.' Kingsley made a face. He retrieved the ring carefully from Harry, though he let Harry keep the kerchief. 'Well, you're not wrong, sir. And that is one thing I'd like done sooner than later.'

'Chief Auror's call to make,' Savage disagreed, but, most surprising of anything Harry had seen so far today, he relented rather immediately. 'I'll ask him myself. But only once the civilians have all kindly removed themselves from where they're not meant to be, am I clear?'

'Moony-- Remus,' Sirius corrected himself miserably. 'We'll be outside, love. We'll be waiting for you.'

'Don't,' Remus said, or something like it. His head lay on the table again, his hands clenched in his lap.

'We will,' Sirius returned. But he let himself be pushed out by Savage, and he didn't stay in the anteroom at all, but threw open the second door and went striding out past the Dementor, growling at it to get away from him. Harry saw him strike at the wall with a fist before the door swung closed on him, shutting out the sight of his futile temper.

Harry couldn't bring himself to look back through the mirror. He slid to the floor with his back to the wall, bunching Kingsley's kerchief into a damp ball between his hands. He wished he'd been allowed to bring his sword in. He'd have liked to bash a few walls down, himself.

'All right?' Savage asked him warily.

Maybe Savage thought he was going to weep. Harry might've liked to weep. There was something awful and heavy in his chest that had been growing and growing in there for months, since the events in the Chamber. But his eyes were dry. His eyes were dry, and his head was empty, completely empty. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to help. This was too big for him to fix even with wish magic. He hadn't any idea what to wish for, except to wish for it all to have never happened, the Chamber, Tom Riddle, Horcruxes and Killing Curses and all of it. To wish he was just a boy who didn't matter to Dark Lords at all, a boy who'd been nothing very special at all at Crowhill, where Remus Lupin had been just a teacher and he hadn't known any of this existed.

Lyall stood beside him, facing the other way, looking in at his son. He didn't say anything, either. But one of his crooked-knuckled hands fell to Harry's hair, stroking gently.

'Goblins, then,' Savage muttered, and out he went.

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

If Harry hadn't seen it for himself, a boy might be quite within his rights to wonder if there were, in fact, any goblins _other_ than Griphook staffing Gringotts Bank.

The stout little person who came into the warded chamber in an awkward waddle-- they had, Harry had just learnt this summer during his tutoring with Charlie Weasley, claws on their feet as well as their hands, and went through human shoes in the hundreds before their claws finally fell out with old age-- was a familiar combination of oily, rat-like hair upon his head, beady black eyes, a smile that looked to be made of broken glass, and a bespoke suit of very handsome jacquard that even Mr Malfoy would have approved. He dismissed most of those waiting on him without so much as a glance, but took Harry's hand immediately when Harry offered it.

'Thank you for coming, Mr Griphook,' Harry said. 'Anything you can do to help is really appreciated.'

'There is no need to thank me, Mr Potter,' Griphook replied in his low croak. 'Goblins cannot refuse a "request" from Ministry officials.'

'I didn't know that.' Harry faltered, but tried his best to recover courteously. 'Well, I'm still personally grateful. He's very important to me, and you coming yourself is more than I would have asked.'

Griphook's eyes gleamed. 'Well spoken, young sir.' He hefted the large bag he carried. 'Where am I to do my work?'

'Through here.' Kingsley opened the door at Savage's knock, and escorted Griphook through. Harry angled for a look through the door-- it didn't change the view at all, but it was somehow more reassuring to see Remus in the flesh than through the glass of the mirror.

Remus had calmed during the wait for Griphook's arrival. He sat much as he had been when they'd first seen him, manacled hands limp in his lap, head bowed a little as if it were too heavy to hold up. He'd had a cup of tea, but barely touched it, had refused food. Harry knew that per the usual after a moon's dose of Wolfsbane Potion he would have been abed all day recovering; Wolfsbane was a poison to humans, whatever good it did a cursed werewolf. But there was no rest likely to come for some time, so Remus sat in waiting for whatever it was would come next. Griphook let his bag drop to the floor with a solid thunk, and Remus's head rose.

Goblin and werewolf eyed each other. Belatedly, Harry recalled his first trip to Gringotts-- he'd been so freshly aware of his magic, of the Wizarding World, everything had seemed so exciting and new. He hadn't known, then, what to make of the evident distaste between banker and teacher. Since Savage had shut the door in his face anyway and there was nothing to do but watch, Harry cleared his throat and just asked.

'Why do they hate each other?'

'Who?' Savage wondered, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He, too, was scowling, like the men inside, but that was just his perpetual bad mood.

'It's just that I'd think they'd get along more than not. Since there's so-- I meant-- given that-- the Ministry and how it is with people like that,' Harry said, fumbling for delicacy.

Savage snorted. 'People,' he said contemptuously. 'Beings. Creatures, depending on who's in charge. And the answer is all of a piece, Potter. They can't control themselves, even faced with a common enemy-- and you can be damned sure they think of us as the enemy. Humans.'

That was no answer. Harry looked to Lyall, but his grandfather had subsided to the chair to rest. Though he'd recovered from his stroke far more than expected to, he couldn't stay awake long on his best days, and this counted as deeply stressful. They'd only been here three hours and already Harry felt as though he'd been playing a hard-fought Quidditch game for twice that. His muscles ached all over and his head was pounding a bit, his stomach clenched and unhappy. He picked at the dry skin of his fingernails.

Griphook unrolled a length of dragonhide on the table to reveal some dozen small tools of gold and steel. He selected from these a hammer no larger than his forefinger, and something like a single lense of glasses, which he perched into the crag of his eyebrow and socket. At his barked order, Remus leant over, arching his neck to give Griphook better access to the chain he wore.

'It is indeed goblin work,' Griphook confirmed. 'Very well made indeed. Ah, yes; this here, this glyph-- the maker's signature. Razorclash the Jeweller. Third century. Will you need to retain the chain after it's removed?'

'Goblins,' Savage muttered. 'Always with the gold.'

'It's evidence,' Kingsley said, 'but I don't see why it couldn't be returned to you after we're done for it. Put in a petition. Once it's broken I don't suppose it's worth much to anyone.'

'And yet wizards so rarely return what is not theirs,' Griphook said. He examined the chain at greater length, picking at it once or twice with different tools, then snapped his fingers at Remus's nose. 'I can remove it,' he confirmed. 'But it is likely to be very uncomfortable for you, if not a little dangerous.'

'Anything,' Remus said. 'I want it gone.'

'If there's possible injury, we'll need you to waive liability for the Ministry in writing,' Kingsley told him, and shuffled through his sheafs of parchment. 'Here. Sign on the line, or we can get a barrister to explain your rights to--'

Remus signed. 'I don't care. I don't care. _Get it off me._ '

'Kneel, please.' Griphook dug into his bag, and removed several instruments. Harry gripped the window ledge, wishing he could protest-- surely that wasn't a welding torch? Mr Weasley had one and Harry had been lectured very sternly about how hot and how dangerous the flame could be. Remus knelt on his bare legs on the floor, and he was given a thick dragonhide glove to wear on the hand which he used to hold the chain as far from his neck as he could with long-nosed pliers. Griphook donned a mask, not before taking a long look at the mirror. Then he lit the torch, and brought it to bear on the chain.

Harry heard the commotion behind him a moment before the door opened. It was Sirius, returning at last, but he wasn't alone. He was talking over his shoulder, and Harry recognised the red robes of the Chief Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour. At least, Sirius was talking to him til he caught a glimpse of what was happening to Remus inside the interrogation room, and then only a swift grab by Savage stopped him tearing through to stop it. Scrimgeour joined the scrum, and Harry retreated to the corner with Lyall, who had waked at the raised voices.

'The fuck are you doing to him?' Sirius was shouting.

'Lord Potter!' Scrimgeour wrenched Sirius around and gave him a shove into the wall, holding him there by the shoulders. 'Lord Potter, please do not interrupt these proceedings.'

'Then end these proceedings!' Sirius hissed back. 'I want him released!'

'You can want the moon and be no closer to having it,' Scrimgeour said bluntly. 'He's under arrest and that's not going to change.'

'Headmaster,' Harry said, surprised to see who had come in behind Sirius and Scrimgeour.

Dumbledore nodded to Harry, but his eyes were on the two men still standing off at the wall. 'Fortunately I was already in London visiting a friend,' he said. 'Sirius was able to reach me quickly. Rufus. Auggie.'

Savage cleared his throat, suddenly blushing a bit. 'I go by August, now, Headmaster.'

'I will endeavour to recall that in future,' Dumbledore promised. 'Lyall. Harry. How are you, my lad?'

'What's going to happen to Remus, sir?'

'Yes, that is the question, isn't it? Protective custody would be protocol, in such situations, I believe, Rufus?'

'It is, Albus,' Scrimgeour confirmed. He released Sirius with a warning glance, straightening his robes and smoothing down his hair. 'And it doesn't get more protected than Azkaban.'

'Azkaban!' Harry cried.

Dumbledore quietened Harry with a small gesture out of Scrimgeour's sightline. 'Indeed, though it's not particularly accessible, you will agree.'

'There is no need to access Mr Lupin once questioning is completed.'

'Were we discussing only trial and imprisonment, that would be true.' Dumbledore was at his mildest, smiling benevolently. It would hardly fool Scrimgeour, who had been engaged in something of a battle of wits against Dumbledore for years in his climb toward the Ministry's highest seat, but even as Dumbledore was speaking Scrimgeour began to grimace, as if he knew where this was going. 'But there will be a greater need to have Mr Lupin at hand to assist us in the hunt for Tom Riddle. We were exceedingly lucky, when the war ended, that we had only to tally crimes and ensure the perpetrators were justly dealt with. This is not yet a war, though I think we both know it will be, some day all too soon.'

'Don't gild the lily,' Scrimgeour said sourly. 'I take your point. But if we eliminate Azkaban, there's not many protective sites easy to hand.'

'Perhaps I may be able to broaden your tally. I am aware of certain safe houses which should suit your needs admirably. They could be secured with minimal Auror oversight, and keep Mr Lupin on British soil.'

'Exactly how legal are these safe houses?' Scrimgeour wondered pointedly. Dumbledore opened his mouth, and Scrimgeour firmly hushed him. 'I cannot possibly, Albus. It's not even hinted at in _protocol_.'

'True, if one were speaking solely of a prisoner awaiting trial. There is considerably more precedent for such handling of confidential informants, however. As, I believe, Mr Lupin was already employed by the Aurors? Which would make it entirely within your discretion, dear Rufus. And how forward-thinking of you, to insert an informant into Tom's company to gather what will no doubt be invaluable intelligence.'

Harry bit his lip, trying not to hope. Scrimgeour caught a glimpse of his face and grimaced anew, but he was also caving in, and Harry couldn't help a grin when Scrimgeour finally surrendered, nodding his assent.

A hard gasp from the other room drew his eyes then, and Harry looked in time to see Griphook break the heated chain with careful application of wicked-looking clippers. Remus dropped to the floor, moaning. Sirius tried again for the door, again blocked by Savage, but Remus wasn't harmed. Even as Griphook turned away from him, Remus reached for him, stopping just short of his sleeve.

'Thank you,' he stammered. 'You can't know. I can't-- anything I can do. Any way I can ever repay you. I swear it.'

Griphook looked surprised by this-- such as a goblin could look surprised about anything, eyes wider beneath his straggling hair and no movement at all, like a deer caught momentarily in a headlamp. But Griphook was no deer. He moved, swiftly for his size especially, and raised Remus up by an elbow. He helped Remus back into his chair.

'I am... gladdened... if I could be of any service,' Griphook said, and turned his back so he could pack away his tools.

'Damn that boy,' Lyall sighed. 'No good end to that.'

'What?'

'Never bargain with a goblin, Mr Potter,' Scrimgeour told Harry. He didn't look too pleased, either. 'Wizarding history is rife with tales of fools who come to bad ends returning a favour from a goblin.'

Maybe. But maybe, Harry thought, with that inner voice that sometimes observed things through a rather more Slytherin edge-- the voice sounded quite a lot like Draco-- that it could be the clever sort of politics that Slytherins liked to play. Griphook was stealing little looks at Remus as he tidied up, and he didn't look like he found it quite so distasteful, anymore, to be here helping a werewolf. It hadn't been a bargain, not really. The Ministry had demanded Griphook come, not Remus. Remus had offered his vow freely, in gratitude. Harry rather had the idea that very few wizards felt it was needful to express gratitude to goblinkind. Likely even fewer were actually sincere about it.

'Mr Potter,' Dumbledore called gently for Harry's attention, and Harry reluctantly turned his back on Remus. 'Though you are understandably desirous of remaining for the duration, I think this is likely to go on a while yet, as the Chief Auror determines the best means to remove Mr Lupin to a secure location. I wonder if I might persuade you to step outside with me for a brief time-- an hour at most? There is someone I would like you to meet, and our present location provides the ideal opportunity.'

Harry had absolutely no desire left over after an emotionally demanding afternoon of watching his guardian be interrogated after some seven months kidnapped away from his family. But Dumbledore had been all summer at preparations for the Triwizard Tournament that would be hosted at Hogwarts this year, and Harry had been called upon to be available to various persons whose cooperation, and funds, were needed to succeed in their endeavour. Little as Harry liked to capitalise on his fame, he had plenty of it to go round, and he knew Dumbledore did really try to limit what he asked of Harry. And he couldn't think of gratitude without admitting he owed it to Dumbledore, for sparing Remus from a long sentence at Azkaban just now. Sirius had told Harry enough of the wizarding prison to feed Harry's nightmares. It would have been like losing Remus all over again. So Harry glumly nodded his agreement.

The man who met them in the Atrium was a trim fellow in a pin-stripe robe who carried a bowler hat and a walking stick tucked beneath his arm. He had a greying toothbrush moustache like Charlie Chaplin, and a nervous sort of face, constantly looking over his shoulder, starting when Dumbledore called his name. 'Barty,' Dumbledore said, clasping his hand. 'Forgive the interruption-- a family matter, I'm afraid. But I had the good fortune of coming across my young protege, Mr Potter. Harry, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Bartemius Crouch, the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.'

'Hello, sir,' Harry said obediently, extending his hand to be shaken in turn.

Bartemius Crouch's twitchy shoulders tightened as he took Harry in. 'Good lord, you are Harry Potter, aren't you,' he said. 'I haven't seen you since you were a babe in your mother's arms. You have her eyes. I remember her very fondly. Very fondly indeed.'

'You knew my mum, sir?'

'I had that great pleasure. I own I didn't think much at first of letting women into the Corps, but she more than changed my mind.'

'You mean the Auror Corps?' Despite his grim mood Harry felt a tingle of excitement at this. Stories of his parents always excited him, but sometimes it seemed as if Lily had been defined more by her relationships than her own temperament. She'd been Severus Snape's only friend, she'd been his Aunt's envied younger sister outshining her at every turn, she'd been James's girlfriend and then wife, Harry's mum. No-one ever seemed to remember her for just herself.

But Mr Crouch was smiling wistfully now, and it was all for Lily. 'I was head of Magical Law Enforcement in those days,' he told Harry. 'We'd had low recruitment for many years, as the war got farther and farther behind us. Grindelwald's War, that is. When He Who Must Not Be Named began to rise I pleaded with the Ministry to offer incentives and to fast-track new Aurors, til some radical by the name of Albus--' Crouch turned a stern eye on Dumbledore-- 'Overturned centuries of Wizarding history and suggested the easiest way to beef up our numbers was to allow the fairer sex to join up. I don't have to tell you, Mr Potter, this was not greeted by many with relief. Or, rather, comic relief; we were sure he was joking. But in they came, the first female Aurors, and your mother Lily Potter top of the class. She outscored most of the men, come to that. A "whizz with a wand", we all called her.' Mr Crouch gave a strange look over his shoulder again, dark and mourning. 'Do I correctly recall you are living with your godfather now, Mr Potter?'

'Yes, sir. Sirius Black. Well, Potter. He adopted the Potter name, and me, last spring.'

'After escaping Azkaban.'

'After being falsely convicted,' Harry said. 'Sir.'

Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder warned him against pursuing that. 'But Sirius has forgiven all, and stepped up to his new responsibilities admirably. He will be teaching again this year, in fact.'

'I should hope so,' Crouch said severely. 'I recall him from the Corps as well. He was quite the rascal, and threatened to drag your father with him into more than one reprimand. Although I was... I was disappointed to think him guilty. It came as a great shock to all of us who knew them. They were so close, your parents and he. I can admit I was very emotional at his arrest, and I may have let my emotions get the better of me, in the rush to judge him. I had come to look on Lily quite as a daughter,' he added abruptly. 'I was greatly... greatly distressed at what befell her. It was a time of such loss.'

'Barty's wife and son both died not long after your parents,' Dumbledore told Harry quietly.

'I do not speak his name,' Mr Crouch said flatly, his eyes rivetted to something only he could see. 'Nor that of the woman who chose to follow him to her death. But I do understand very well, Mr Potter, what it is to lose every-- everything. I do understand that very well.'

There was an excruciating pause. At least, Harry thought it was a pause, since no-one walked away to do something else. He shuffled, til Dumbledore cleared his throat suggestively.

'Barty has been coordinating the Triwizard Tournament with the governments of France and Bulgaria,' Dumbledore said then. 'He will also be serving as a judge on the panel.'

'Are you planning to compete, Mr Potter?' Crouch asked, rallying at this. 'I'm afraid I cannot be seen to play favourites.'

'Harry is only in his third year,' Dumbledore replied. 'Though I know he will put forth his best effort, most of the tasks will be beyond his experience. He will, however, be serving as a Student Ambassador for Hogwarts, so you will have a chance to get to know each other during the year.' Dumbledore tapped a long finger alongside his crooked nose. 'Young Mr Potter has expressed an interest in a Ministry career. I am sure he is bursting with questions for a man of your lengthy experience, Barty.'

'Oh,' Harry said. 'Er, yes. Bursting.'

'Well, we shall have many opportunities to have a good chat this year.' Mr Crouch gave Harry another handshake-- he had damp palms, which Harry forced himself to smile through-- and placed his hat atop his sparse hair. 'Good day, Mr Potter, Albus. I'm afraid I must be going.'

Harry heaved a breath once they stood alone again. The Tournament had consumed so much effort for months, but it felt a million years away at the moment. He couldn't believe he'd have to go back to school and pretend to care about anything other than Remus.

'You did very well, Harry.' Dumbledore faced him, gazing down at him with a mixture of concern and pride. 'I cannot pretend to know what you are feeling just now, nor what lays ahead of you. But I hope you know you can come to me, if you need anything at all.'

'Thank you, sir. And for helping Remus.' Harry gnawed his lower lip. 'Is it true you're his guardian? I never knew that.'

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled in something like a smile, but it was too sad for that. 'I was given to understand some time ago that Remus no longer wished to acknowledge our legal relationship. I do not blame him, Harry, for his feelings. His life has not been easy. I suppose that is part of why you and he understand each other so well.'

'I guess.' Harry stared at his shoes, fighting the prick of heat in his eyes. It would do no good, and it wouldn't make him feel any better. 'Will he be able to come home someday? Like Sirius did.'

'Sirius was not guilty of what he was accused of doing. I am afraid Remus likely is guilty of something-- in the eyes of the Aurors at least. They will take into account that he was forced, but--'

'Sometimes it seems like everything is horrible.'

'Only sometimes,' Dumbledore said gently. 'And that only enjoins us to try all the harder to make our world a better place.'

He nodded, but only because he knew it was expected. It didn't make him feel any better.

'Harry,' Dumbledore began.

'Harry! Harry Potter!' The clack of heels on the Atrium's marble floors came on a hard trajectory straight for him. Harry took a step back, bumping someone who was passing behind him, but it didn't spare him the onrush of one Rita Skeeter. The _Daily Prophet_ reporter was wearing an eye-popping dress of leaf green-- Harry recognised it as Gilderoy Lockhart's line of high street ladies' fashion, which had swept the nation on the back of his tell-all book  The Chamber of Destiny. Rita Skeeter had been listed as his co-author.

'Harry, love, imagine meeting you here,' Rita cried loudly, seizing his hand and pumping it. She was sweating a bit, her hair falling from its many pins despite her attempts to pat it back into place. 'Ran right over when I heard you were in,' she puffed.

'I should get back downstairs,' Harry said hastily.

'Wait wait wait!' She lunged after him, pulling a parchment and quill from her purse. 'Is it true you're on the welcome committee for the foreign types headed to Hogwarts? Any thoughts on Igor Karkaroff's Dark past? He was an avowed follower of You Know Who, who killed your parents--'

'I know what he did,' Harry told her. 'Please leave me alone. No comment.'

'What about--'

Harry smacked nose-first into a body that was standing right behind him when he tried to whirl away. 'Oof,' he said, wind momentarily knocked out of him, as he rebounded into a sprawl on the floor. Rita Skeeter shrieked when she found him accidentally looking up her skirt-- though she winked as she wrapped it firmly about her legs. Red-faced, Harry stuttered an apology.

'You should watch where you're going, young man,' Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge told him with a thin smile. 'It doesn't do to take the lobby of the Ministry at a run.'

'S-sorry.' Dumbledore offered a hand, but he was quite a lot older than even Lyall, and Harry didn't want to topple him with an overfirm yank. He made it to his knees, and let Dumbledore steady him on the way up. 'Sorry,' he said again, a despairing panacea for a broad range of issues.

'Albus,' Fudge said coldly. 'I wasn't aware you had any business which would require your presence at the Ministry these days.'

'Even a mere civilian is welcome here when meeting a friend for tea.'

'Meeting Potter here for tea?'

'No, I believe Mr Potter is here for other reasons entirely. Internship application,' he added, sotto voce.

Fudge cast Harry a look that promised said application, if it had really existed, would find its way to the bottom of the Black Lake sooner than an 'accepted' pile. 'You're growing up so fast, Potter,' Fudge said then. 'Though "up" is a bit of a misnomer, eh? Better watch yourself during the Tournament, wouldn't want some six-foot Ruskie to step on you.'

Rita Skeeter whistled at that, eyes wide behind her cats-eye glasses. She scribbled hurriedly on her parchment.

'Cornelius,' Dumbledore chided, still polite but no longer pretending congeniality. 'I'm sure you have your own business to attend.'

'Just so.' Fudge swept past them with a swirl of his robe. Snape did it better, Harry thought.

'I hope you don't take his words to heart, Harry,' Dumbledore murmured. 'I'm afraid that wasn't aimed at you, but rather at me. You are an innocent bystander in a long-standing conflict.'

'Any comment on _that,_ Harry?' Skeeter asked him.

' _No,'_ Harry told her crossly.

'Harry.' It was Sirius. His eyes were red, his face pale. He turned a very chilly stare on Rita Skeeter, who faltered before she could ask whatever question had sprung to her red lips. She beat a quick retreat.

'I'm going to take you home now,' Sirius said. 'They're keeping Moon-- Remus here through the night, til they're sure Riddle's not going to come after him. And Da needs to rest. And I want to check on Reg. He's probably going mad wondering what's happening.'

'But--'

'And you need dinner.'

'I'm not hungry, Sirius.'

'Don't fight me on every damn thing,' Sirius snapped. 'We're going home because I said so.'

'Can I at least say good-bye to him?'

'It's not a good idea.'

'I just want--'

'He doesn't want to see us!' Sirius shouted. 'All right? Happy?'

No. No, Harry was anything but happy. The hot feeling in his eyes was back. He sniffled and rubbed his nose across his sleeve. Sirius sighed, and pulled him close.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered brokenly.

'Don't be sorry. I'm sorry.' Sirius squeezed him tight.

'I'll call on you in the morning, if I may,' Dumbledore volunteered quietly. 'Perhaps Rufus will have agreed to a location by then. As soon as you can be cleared to visit him, I promise I will arrange it.'

'If he lets you,' Sirius muttered. He rubbed his chin on Harry's hair, and let go. 'Scrimgeour's posted a guard on the cottage. I'll firecall you with the key.'

'I know it doesn't feel like it, but this is cause for celebration,' Dumbledore said. 'Remus is no longer lost to us. And you are proof positive that recovery is possible. Remus will recover, too.'

'Don't, Albus.'

'But I must, Sirius. If I have learnt nothing else in the past few years, it is that nothing is impossible. Believe in him. Believe that he loves you enough.'

Sirius ground his jaws. It didn't stop the tear rolling down his cheek. 'We'll see you in the morning,' he said hoarsely. 'Come on, Harry.'

 

 

**

 

 

 

A soft chirrup woke Harry. He squinted against the dark, fumbling out a hand to his sidetable, searching for his glasses. He crammed them on, propping himself upright on an elbow.

Fawkes the phoenix perched on Harry's footboard. When he saw he had Harry's attention, he trilled lovingly. Then bent his head backward for a good scratch with a claw.

Harry couldn't help a smile. 'Hullo, Fawkes. You could've waited. School starts in a few weeks.'

'Blurp,' replied the phoenix.

'I know. I missed you, too.' Harry rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. Now he was awake, he had to pee. 'Back in mo,' he sighed, and threw off his duvet to slide out of bed.

There was a light burning in Sirius's bedroom. Harry stopped before the door, hesitating. He pushed the door open, and went in.

Regulus looked up from his book. 'He's sleeping,' he said. 'So should you be.'

Harry took the open chair. Sirius was sprawled on his usual side of the bed, one hand reaching for the empty left. The other hand, curled to his chest, held an empty bottle of whiskey.

'I don't know what to do,' Harry said.

'There's nothing for you to do.' Regulus tucked a lock of hair behind a dead white ear. 'He didn't say much.'

'It was horrible.'

'I'm sorry,' Regulus said softly. 'I really am.'

'Yeah.' It was only because he was tired. His eyes prickled, and then spilled over. He bent over his knees, but a moment later Regulus was kneeling before him. Harry clung to him, stifling his sobs in Regulus's cool shoulder.

Fawkes came winging in, alighting on Harry's back. He picked his way up Harry's nightshirt, and stroked his beak through Harry's hair. 'Sssssss,' Fawkes susurrated. He wobbled a little for balance, wings flapping, but got himself settled. He began to sing.

'Just let me be sad,' Harry complained weakly, but Regulus gave a startled little laugh, and that set Harry off. He giggled helplessly, and Regulus pulled him off the chair to sit on the floor instead, their backs to the bed, Fawkes's clear high song carrying sweetly through the night.


	3. TWAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Time Progresses, If Nothing Else._

'Accio--'

' _Ahhh_ -key-oh,' Tonks corrected him.

The study of actual Latin in Latin Revision had long since taken a backseat to more pressing concerns. Neville could be counted on to correct any wayward pronunciation or translation, but to Harry's critical eye it seemed that spells were a mish-mash anyway, Latin and English and gibberish whenever real words weren't imaginative enough. He held in a sigh, nodded his acceptance, and repeated it as Tonks indicated.

'Accio cup,' he said, and the plastic wobbled on the counter, fell with a thunk, and rolled about on the floor. 'Can't I just use the sword?'

'You mightn't always have your sword on you,' Tonks said.

'The sword follows me everywhere,' Harry pointed out. 'Even into the shower.' It was a pain to be polishing it all the time for rust, too.

'Do you think if you argue with me you'll change my mind?' Tonks, Harry decided, was starting to sound all too much like a certain Potions master. Sarcasm was catching. 'What we really ought to be working on is finding a way to make that sword mind its own business,' she added sourly.

Harry toyed with the wand. He still hadn't found one that suited him, and there seemed to be a point past which any wand, however well it started off, fizzled out and stopped working altogether. Sirius had made a trip to Diagon Alley and come back with a dozen used wands. That had been four weeks ago. They were going to need another dozen soon.

'Accio Fanta,' Harry said, giving the wand a flick, and heard the icebox door bang open. A moment later, a cool bottle slapped into his hand.

'Good job,' Tonks complimented him.

'Pretty sure that was the sword.'

She sighed. 'Harry. All right. You want to talk about it?'

'No,' he said sullenly, unscrewing the cap and sipping. 'Talking doesn't change anything.'

Tonks took a seat on the floor, patting the carpet beside her. With a sigh of his own, Harry joined her, letting her steal his fizzy and take a sip of her own. 'Lemon,' she noted. 'S'good. Muggle? My dad keeps a secret stash of sweets around the house. He likes Lucozade though.'

'Remus... Remus says it'll rot my teeth.'

Tonks appeared to arrive at a decision, for she took a little breath to set herself and then spoke in that straightforward way that he so admired in her. 'Has anyone told you about where they're holding him?'

'You've seen it?' Harry askd eagerly.

She nodded. 'It's a place like this. A house. Smaller. Just a couple of rooms. But it's clean and comfortable. He sleeps a lot. Don't think he'd been sleeping much before.'

'Did Tom Riddle attack anywhere like Remus thought he would?'

At least she didn't hesitate. She told him outright, no dissembling. 'Yes,' she said. 'But Remus had given us crucial intelligence. We had Aurors on the scene almost immediately. Riddle's got away, or had never been there; Peter Pettigrew too. But we did get several others. Nine werewolves, two vampires, an Aarakocra--'

'A what?'

'Birdman. You Know Who used them in the last war as messengers and spies. They're not the brightest creatures; they don't understand human speech, or not more than basic commands, but they're loyal. Remus says he's got other creatures, too, jaculi and phantom stalkers and inferi, but it doesn't seem like Riddle's deployed them. Yet.'

That was a lot to absorb. For the moment, Harry only tucked it away, to think over later, and asked what he really wanted to know. 'Was anyone hurt?'

Tonks nodded again. 'Yes.'

'But you're not going to tell me,' Harry guessed, keenly disappointed to find her limit so quickly.

'There's nothing you can do to help them.'

Harry looked at the Fanta sweating against his palms. He didn't like that answer. He didn't like it when Tonks said it, when Sirius said it, when Regulus said it. It didn't matter how many times anyone repeated it. It wasn't true.

'How do you know he won't come here?' His voice cracked in the middle, wobbling between childish tenor and something huskier, deeper. It had been doing that quite a lot lately. Harry wished it wouldn't do it quite so often when he was trying to brave it out.

'The fact he hasn't, yet.'

'But now he's--'

'No-one in their right mind would think Remus is here. Riddle will know the Aurors have hid him away.'

'He's not in his right mind, is he?'

'This house is protected. Why don't we practise that Accio again?'

'Owl,' Harry said, recognising the ring of the bell in the yard, and abandoned the floor of the Floo room at a trot to answer the post.

It was one of the approved school owls that squatted sleepily on the perch in the back yard, a slightly cross-eyed barn owl that Dumbledore used frequently and could be trusted to slip discreetly through the wards as needed. It gave a friendly enough coo as Harry approached, but squawked in alarm when Tonks hauled him back. 'Could be a trap,' she warned him.

'It's Duchess,' Harry protested. 'I recognise her.'

'Whether it is or isn't doesn't matter, owls can be intercepted. And unknown packages could be Portkeys or poisoned or--'

'All right,' Harry said grudgingly.

Several detection spells later, Tonks seemed-- reluctantly-- assured of the authenticity of the owl and its sender, and the safety of the small package it carried. She did not, however, allow Harry to open it for himself, and subjected its contents to the same rigmorale before handing it over in a bundle of cut string, crumpled brown paper, and a bit of colourful enamel the size of Harry's palm. It was a badge, the seal of Hogwarts with all four Houses, and a pin on the backing indicating it was meant to be worn.

'I thought only prefects and Head Boys and Girls got badges?'

'Triwizard Ambassador and Tutor,' Tonks read the scrolling gilt lettering over his shoulder. 'They have you teaching others now?'

'Spellcasting in English, or Latin, I suppose, and I'm supposed to tutor them in Charms, since it's my best subject.' Harry proferred the letter that had come with the badge. Tonks glanced it over. 'Classes, Quidditch, the Tournament, getting tutored and now tutoring others,' Harry said. Not to mention the Knights of Jupiter and Latin Revision. 'It's going to be a full year.'

Tonks screwed her mouth to the side. Then she put her hand on his shoulder, then his hair, giving him a gentle muss. 'You want me to tell them you're too tired?'

'I'm not tired.'

Tonks chewed on her lower lip a moment, biting away her purple lipgloss. Then she nodded. 'Okay.'

He took a deep breath, let it lift his shoulders, straighten his spine. 'Let's practise the Accio,' he said, and went in.

 

 

**

 

 

The first Sunday of September found Harry attempting to stuff his trunk to the gills. It required several tries, arranging a Hermione-sized load of books amidst layers of clothes, Quidditch gear, parchment, quills, and inkpots, mechanical pencils and a box of biros for when he gave up on the impossibility that was writing with a bloody feather, far more shoes than he was accustomed to needing-- the annual letter from Hogwarts had specified dress shoes for all students, active wear for anyone who planned on participating in the sports-- there was as yet no official mention of the Tournament-- as well as the usual day wear which, Harry had been informed by Severus Snape many times, was _not_ Muggle trainers, no matter how comfortable Harry felt them to be compared to the Oxfords Draco and his ilk preferred.

'Would you like me to help?' Regulus asked from the door.

'No, I think I've got it,' Harry replied, wrapping his dress shoes in a robe and stuffing both into his cauldron. The lid just barely closed, and Harry sat on it to hold it down as he strapped it and locked it. 'That's done it.'

'Room for one thing more?'

'Your locket?' Harry pushed it back at Regulus, shaking his head. 'I can't.'

'I think you ought to do.' Regulus perched uneasily on the foot of Harry's bed, twining the chain about his pale fingers. Harry had come to look past Regulus's odd appearance most of the time; having come back from the dead after a decade drowned, the younger Black brother shared Sirius's aquiline nose and strong jaw, but the other resemblances they must have shared in life ended there. Sirius's hair was thick and wavy and chocolately brown. Regulus's had gone reddish from oxidisation, starchy and brittle. Sirius tanned readily in the sun and Regulus had lost all pigment as if bleached. Sirius's eyes were a silvery grey that could be cold as ice or snapping with temper or alight with mischief. Regulus's eyes had no colour at all, the pupils blown and hazed over. He had never complained about it. But he avoided mirrors. Harry had noticed the flannels hanging over the glass in the loo whenever Regulus went in to wash up.

'I think you ought to do,' Regulus said again, slower, softer. 'You said the Headmaster means for you to be searching for Horcruxes. I know this isn't really a Horcrux, but I think... I think it might help you find the real one. I just have a... feeling.' He held it out again, and this time Harry took it. It was cool, despite constantly hanging about Regulus's neck. He had no body heat to warm it.

'Do you remember anything?' Harry asked him. 'Anything at all about it?'

'I've tried. Night after night. There's not much else to think of in the early hours.' Regulus picked up a shirt Harry had discarded from his baggage, folding it in his lap. 'I'm not unaware of what I owe you.'

'Nothing,' Harry said. 'You owe me nothing.'

'I think you really are that selfless.' Regulus smoothed a wrinkle in the shirt. 'You don't know how foreign that is to me. Or maybe you do. I think we're not unalike, you and me, at least in one thing. What must it have been like for you, in that orphanage? You know what it is to be alone in all the world.'

'We're not alone now.'

'Or we're all alone, together.' Regulus met his eyes briefly, before he looked down again. 'I remember the first time I was allowed into his presence. The Dark Lord. They took me to meet him. In a little abandoned hut by the sea, some place on the edge of no-where. It was like... it was like meeting a god. I felt like a man in a Roman myth, encountering Zeus in the flesh. He radiated power. He looked into me, into my soul, and he knew everything about me that single glance. I remember how that felt, as if he'd reached into my chest and put his hand about my heart. And that I felt as if I'd been freed from the past, so that he could be my future. I didn't know then it was just another prison.'

Harry rubbed at the hinge in the locket, and the latch, and opened it. It was empty now of the note Regulus had once secreted inside it, that had been meant to be a posthumous triumph over the evil man who'd have been just a little more human, a little more vulnerable, if Regulus had succeeded in his final deed. 'Why did you turn on him?' Harry asked. He supposed he'd taken it for granted that anyone sane would do. Snape had done. Mr Malfoy had done, if a little more reluctantly. Even Peter Pettigrew, in a way, had abandoned Voldemort for Tom Riddle.

'I don't know. I don't remember doing it. Only that I came to see him for what he was, for what he'd made me, and that it was worth my life to destroy him.' This time, Regulus held Harry's gaze. 'I don't know that it's worth yours, though.'

'Everyone says that.'

'Not Dumbledore. I don't remember much about-- about the time between--' The time he'd spent as a ghost, haunting Hogwarts as an unnamed spectre, a time that remained as much a mystery as how he'd been able to return to a body that was re-animated but not quite resurrected. 'But I remember that. He gave you the sword.'

'The Hat gave me the sword,' Harry pointed out.

'The Hat told him to give you the sword. And he agreed, or at least obeyed. And he let me lead you to the Chamber, to confront Tom Riddle.'

'I wanted to go. I wanted to fight.'

'To fight. Not to kill. Not to die trying to kill.'

'So I shouldn't trust Dumbledore, is that what you're saying?' Harry guessed impatiently.

'You shouldn't trust anyone who expects you to give your life for them or their goals.'

'That's the whole of bloody Britain.'

It came out bitter. Harry hadn't meant it to. Hadn't known it would. He turned away to his desk, shuffling through a mess of chocolate frog cards and comic books and half-finished drafts of his summer essays. He shoved the lot of it at the bin.

Regulus crouched beside him to rescue it. He stacked the cards neatly, straightened the bent pages of the comics and lined them up neatly on the desk. 'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'I'm as bad as everyone else. Putting things on your shoulders you shouldn't have to carry.'

'I have to, though. Whoever's fault it is.' No. The only one whose fault it was was Voldemort, who'd made him the Boy Who Lived and would just as happily obliterate that moniker from history if he could get at Harry again. And that left Harry without any new choices. Destroy or be destroyed. The world was no different for wishing.

'It's nearly time to leave,' he said then. 'Wish me luck in the Tournament.'

'Good luck,' Regulus answered, and watched him drag his trunk out the door to the stairs.

 

 

 

King's Cross Station was a busy as ever, abustle with a thousand Muggles in every direction, the only points of stillness disguised Aurors alertly scanning the crowds for trouble from every strategic vantage. Harry had an escort of Aurors, too, Tonks at his side in a minidress styled like the Union Jack and red platform boots that had raised heated objections from her partner, the much more conservatively dressed Savage, who stumped along like a vicar in all black and a deep scowl. He garnered many more looks than Tonks, who passed at least four other women who'd taken the Spice Girls as their models before they'd reached the luggage cart docks. Sirius gathered the most attention of all, however, by dint of stopping twice to empty his stomach into the nearest rubbish bin. He walked with a noticably unsteady gait, hand at his head to shade his eyes from the bright lights. Harry kept ahold of his sleeve as subtly as possible, tugging him in the right direction whenever they made a turn.

But at last they were at the brick wall where wizarding students and their parents passed through to Platform 9¾. Tonks flipped about to lean on the wall, popping bubble gum as she disinterestedly examined her nails, leaving Savage to go through to clear the way. At some unspoken signal, she nodded Harry the all clear, and he pushed his cart straight to the wall with only a small flinch for remembering last year's misadventure, courtesy of Dobby. Happily, there was nothing at all amiss this time, and he emerged onto the platform and not in Cornwall or some other unexpected locale. Sirius came after with a little stumble, righting himself on Harry's offered shoulder, though he looked a little green.

'Hem hem.'

Oh no. Harry knew that faux humble interruption. He'd had plenty of opportunity to hear it in Hogwarts' halls last term. Dolores Umbridge.

'I didn't expect to see you til we got to school, Professor,' Harry said, trying to nudge Sirius upright without looking like he was doing exactly what he was doing. Sirius straightened well enough, wincing at the roar of steam engine rumbling, children shrieking, parents talking over them with last-minute instructions, a few weepy good-byes for the first years, and Umbridge herself, who had a particularly cringe-inducing effect on those who had the misfortune of familiar acquaintance with her saccharine tones.

'I volunteered to assist in seeing the train off in good order,' Umbridge was replying, with one of her simpering smiles. She wore a frumpy black robe as was her usual, a crochet shawl of pink pinned at her shoulder with a large brooch of a cat made of coral with emerald eyes. It had a tail that twitched back and forth, snagging in a bit of yarn every time. 'And to that end, Mr Potter, I took the liberty of assigning you a private compartment. To avoid any delay sorting out security, of course.'

'Oh,' Harry said. 'Er, thank you. I was hoping to just sit with my friends, though.'

'Oh, no, Mr Potter,' she said sweetly. 'You are far too important to trust to mere chance. We can hardly test every student for Polyjuice Potion, for instance. Far better to ensure your safety through isolation.'

Harry set his jaws together. He couldn't think of a good argument. She'd outfoxed him, and them not even on school grounds for their ongoing battle of wills, yet.

'Lord Potter,' she added brightly, swooping forward suddenly and taking Sirius's other side, wrapping chubby hands with pink varnished nails about Sirius's arm. 'You look unwell,' she chided him sympathetically. 'A summer cold, no doubt. I have the perfect remedy-- a good cup of tea and plenty of rest. You'll be ever so comfortable in my compartment, away from all this noise and fuss.'

Don't leave me, Harry tried to communicate in a desperate blink, but Sirius was as defenceless as he was. That was two battles Umbridge had won without so much as breaking a sweat. Harry watched his godfather dragged off, despondent and helpless to stop it.

'Clever woman,' Savage approved. He angled a smirk down at Harry. 'Finally, a school administrator who won't let you little brats have your way in everything.'

'If it wasn't safe you wouldn't have let me come by the Express at all,' Harry protested exasperatedly.

'Take it up with Scrimgeour,' Savage shrugged. 'You can send him an owl-- once you're at school to borrow one.'

Harry ground his teeth.

'Oh, and Mr Potter,' Umbridge called, from the steps of the lead car where Sirius clung to the railing and she could give him a not-entirely-needed boost on the behind. 'I was reviewing student medical files with Miss Applebaum and noted your frequent visits. A boy of such delicate constitution requires greater attention to ensure optimum health. I have arranged with the house elves to prepare a menu for your particular nutritional needs. Starting with today's train ride. So many children impulsively gorge themselves on sweets. You'll find your luncheon in your compartment. Be a good boy and eat it all!'

Savage laughed at him all the way onto the train. Tonks gave him an apologetic wave as he boarded.

An hour into their ride found Harry sat alone and very grumpy, picking through a meal of limp steamed broccoli, brown rice, and unseasoned chicken breast solely to avoid having to look at the lumpy sludge that was his tapioca pudding. The trolley witch had been by already and hadn't stopped for him, though he'd jumped up with his mouth watering at the mere mention of pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, licorice wands, and ice mice. Harry retreated to his lonely seat, inclined to pout.

So the sudden invasion of an army of teenagers was a wonderfully welcome surprise. Harry greeted his friends with delight, rising to shake hands and slap shoulders and hug Hermione and start to hug Millie, though she squirmed away with a blush and tugged at her bulky jumper. Harry almost asked if she were warm in it-- it was a summery day, nearly thirty degrees outside, and the train was only as cool as windows lowered for the breeze allowed it to be-- but he was distracted by Draco, whose upturned nose was now parked in the air whole inches above where it had been before summer. Harry was, in fact, the shortest of all the Guard, excepting Theo Nott. They shuffled to sit next to each other.

'Sorry about the wait, we had to distract the Aurors on guard,' Cedric said, cramming into the corner with his girlfriend Cho perched on his knees.

'How'd you--' Harry took a look about, and noted who was missing. 'Fred and George haven't burnt the train down or kidnapped the conductor, have they?'

'What we don't know, we can't be accountable for,' said Percy.

'Fine attitude for the Head Boy,' Oliver scoffed, slinging an arm over Percy's shoulders so he could flick at the badge pinned to Percy's chest. Percy batted him away, but he didn't seem all that bothered by the teasing. He was even smiling. It was all extremely un-Percy-like.

'Here, take my seat, Ginny,' Neville was saying, awkwardly tripping over ankles to put himself out of the way so Ginny could have the sliver of bench he'd been squeezed into. Ginny blushed as she accepted it. Ron narrowed his eyes at Neville.

'What in Merlin's name are you eating?' Draco wondered, poking at Harry's broccoli with the fork as if afraid it might bite him.

'Umbridge,' Harry said.

'Ew, you're eating Umbridge?' Blaise snickered.

'No, Umbridge is planning all my meals now. I can't explain it.' Harry dismissed Umbridge with a shake of his head. 'Do all of you know about Remus?'

Of course they did. It was one of the vagaries of the universe that the Light Guard were a model of efficiency in communication, even more so off school grounds than on. School, sadly, was full of pesky teachers concerned with things like keeping them out of danger they were perfectly willing to run into headlong.

'My father heard there was a huge operation, the whole Auror Corps nearly was involved,' Cedric offered. 'It went on near a whole week.'

That was more than Tonks had admitted to him. Hadn't they realised yet Harry was going to learn the truth one way or another?

'Dad was trying to keep it quiet, but Fred heard him tell Mum and Charlie about a strike on some place called Windsurf Castle,' Ron volunteered.

'Windsor,' Harry corrected, then gaped. 'Tom Riddle attacked Windsor Castle? Was the Queen there?'

'No,' Hermione assured him, from where she was crunched tightly between Terry Boot (who glanced up incuriously from his book, clocked she was done being interesting, and returned to his reading) and Blaise, who used the pause to considerately offer her his packet of sugared butterfly wings. 'Oh, sweets,' Hermione said with a nervous giggle. 'Only my parents are dentists and I'm not allowed... well... just this once, perhaps. The Queen and the royal family were in Balmoral on holiday, Harry.'

'But someone was there,' Harry said. 'Tonks said there were people hurt.'

'And it means Tom Riddle's willing to risk a violation of the Statute of Secrecy bringing extra heat down on 'im,' Oliver contributed. 'There's still wizards on the International Confederation who remember Grindelwald. You Know Who kept his focus on the Wizarding World and only went after Muggles near the end, and that's when the Confederation took an interest and sent in troops. If Tom Riddle is going after prominent Muggle targets, he's either ready for a real war to start or he's mad and beggin' to be put down. If he's makin' mistakes this soon, he might be out of our hair by New Year.'

'He's mad all right,' Percy said shortly, eyes on his shoes. 'But not the kind of mad that makes mistakes.'

A knock at the glass door startled everyone away from the awkward silence that greeted Percy's judgement. It took some intensive re-arrangement of space to allow one of the twins to slip in sidelong, much less get the door shut again after he'd made it inside. Fred-or-George grinned round, nodded at Harry. 'They've got you locked up tighter than treasure at Gringotts,' he informed Harry. 'Don't think we've got much longer, that sour-faced Auror won't fancy spending a hot afternoon on the roof.'

'The roof?' Harry marvelled. He'd have quite liked to see Savage stuck up there facing down whatever horror the twins had conjured, but realistically knew it would only herald an even worse mood that Savage would take great delight in inflicting on Harry. 'What'd you do to Tonks?'

'Nothing permanent.' George-or-Fred's grin widened. 'Wouldn't do nuffin to the future Lady Potter.'

Harry's blush was immediate, high-wattage, and the source of tremendous amusement for his fellows. Someone cat-called. At least two someones whistled.

'Harry needs someone his own age,' Hermione disapproved, only setting Harry to blushing again, although he wasn't alone in his dithering this time. Ginny Weasley looked quite red-cheeked too. And Draco beside him was shredding a serviette in his lap, head bowed, the tips of his ears glowing red-hot.

'Yes, Mum,' Ron muttered. 'Like we'll have any time for that rot what with everything happening this year.'

'Exactly,' Harry agreed hurriedly. 'I'm barely going to have a moment to think, much less-- that. Which is why we should work out now how and when we're going to meet up.'

'I've already been working on that,' Hermione said, wiggling a notebook free of her bag with some jostling her elbows into the boys on either side. 'Sorry. Only I've been corresponding with Professor Flitwick-- er, Mr Flitwick, he says he's not a Professor anymore since that debacle with _The_ _Daily Prophet--_ and he says the Headmaster has brought the lot of them on to help teach again this year because of all the extra students who will be arriving for the Tournament. They'll be holding all sorts of elective seminars and such. The easiest way to get us all in a room without raising suspicion is to have our own elective, something that combines all the specialisms of the teachers so it's not strange they'd all be together. I've got several suggestions worked out, but I think the one that would work best is Broom Making. That way Madam Hooch can be there to talk about how brooms evolved for flight, Flitwick can talk about the charms that are used in broom production, Snape can do the potions used for curing the wood and so on, Sirius-- well, Sirius will be there because you'll be there, Harry, I haven't figured out how it applies to Defence Against the Dark Arts yet--'

'Evasive manoeuvres,' Theo Nott said, achieving his quota on words for the day.

'Oh,' Hermione said, blinking. 'Oh, that's quite good.' She added that to her page with her purple jelly pen. 'Yes, using brooms during a wand fight, et cetera. Now for Hagrid...'

No-one had any ideas for that. Til Harry snapped his fingers. 'We'll need to meet outside to use brooms,' he said. 'And the Pitch will be busy all year for practises, you're always saying how hard it is to schedule time with four Houses competing for daylight hours, Oliver. Hagrid would let us meet at his hut.'

'Brilliant! And done,' Hermione said.

'Hold on,' Millie disagreed, from where she huddled in the corner. 'What do we do if other students want to join up? Some swotty Ravenclaw thinks the history of brooms is going to turn up on an exam and we'll never be able to talk about anything important.'

'Limit the rota,' Cho suggested, for the moment ignoring being called a swot. 'If it's full up no-one else can join.'

'If we haven't got any students from the other schools it won't look fair,' Harry said.

'The easiest answer is that they're all doing it as a favour to you,' Draco said. 'You think anyone looking at that list of names would think any different? Flitwick was your favourite professor, Snape owes everything to you, Hooch and Hagrid both doted on you, and they all got sacked last year because of the ruckus with the Chamber of Secrets, which starred you. And Sirius is your guardian, he'd be hard at your heels if you were just taking an extended trip to the bog. Call a spade a spade. People might grumble but no-one would think twice of you drumming up employment for your flock of dodgy whosits.'

That was an excessively Slytherin way of looking at things, but, Harry concluded, it was also essentially true. If he had to lean a little on his name to get what he wanted, there were plenty who saw nothing wrong with that-- or expected him to be already doing it, nevermind the thought was loathsome. With a sigh, Harry conceeded the point.

'Excellent,' Probably-George concluded. 'Now I suggest we all bugger off before the Aurors come find us here.'

'Sorry, Harry,' several of his friends offered, as they queued to sneak back out again. Ron remembered to give him a sandwich of roast and mustard-- 'Mum, you know,' he shrugged-- and Draco slipped him a chocolate frog and Harry happily gave up his tapioca pudding when Terry asked for it, and then he was alone again, facing another five hours of boredom.

'Nothing doing,' Harry muttered to himself, and looked at the sword where it hung from the peg by the door. 'Don't suppose you play chequers?' he asked it. 'No. Didn't think so.' He rose to fetch his rucksack from the luggage rack, and removed one of the wands. He could at least practise his charms.

 

 

 

Hogwarts at night was truly a beautiful sight, one Harry forgot to much mind when he was mired down in the schoolyear, absorbed with things like chasing down giant basilisks or rescuing Philosopher's Stones. On the other hand, Harry was more inclined to appreciate the vista when he was disgruntled at being forcibly separated from everyone who might have appreciated it with him. Harry was escorted to the last carriage in queue, there to sit pouting for the interminable wait.

'Pardon me?'

Harry lifted his head from the rail. Then sat up. There was no-one there.

'Down here,' the voice said.

Harry turned in his seat, peering over the edge. A girl stood there. She was vaguely familiar-- her robe had the blue and bronze lining of Ravenclaw. Her long blonde plait hung over her shoulder, tied with a scrunchie, excepting one bit at the left temple that appeared to have been severed and now stuck out oddly.

'Hi?' Harry said.

'I noticed you have a lot of room still,' she said. 'All the other carriages are full.'

Harry looked up the road. He could see several in queue that had places open. 'Er, if this is a signature thing, I don't do that anymore.'

'Signature? Are you an artist?'

'What?'

'What?'

'The, uh, I guess you can sit here, yeah.' Harry walked to the edge to offer her a hand up the steps. She hesitated before taking it gingerly, but seemed cheered when all he did was help her balance on the way up.

'I'm Luna,' she said, tucking her robe between her knees. She was wearing two different shoes.

'Harry,' Harry replied.

'Oh, like Harry Potter. Is it strange, having the same name as someone famous?'

Harry raised his eyebrows. 'Er, not that strange.'

Luna only nodded. She patted at her braid, tried to tuck the shorn lock in. 'Do you think I'd look all right with short hair?' she wondered. 'Maybe that's what Chelsea and Belinda were suggesting.'

'I like having short hair,' Harry felt it was safe to say. 'Who are Chelsea and-- the other one?'

'Belinda Qureshi. They're sixth years. Did you know there's a severing charm? It's very effective at a distance.'

Harry frowned. 'Did those girls cut your hair on the train?'

'They might have been aiming for the curtain cord.'

'Why would they want to sever the curtain cord?'

'It's the only thing I can think of,' Luna said quite seriously. 'It was right by my head, after all, where I was reading in the corridor.'

'You were reading in the corridor? On the train?'

'It wasn't so bad. After everyone locked their compartments it was quite empty in the corridor. I managed several chapters.'

Harry's dander was up as he followed the hints to their inevitable conclusion. 'Everyone locked you out of their compartments. And no-one let you onto their carriages, either. And they cut your hair.' He made the decision immediately. 'Would you like to be my friend?'

Luna looked quite startled at this. 'Oh, my,' she said. 'No-one's ever asked me that before.'

'When you get your class schedule, come see me. We'll work it out so I can walk with you.'

'Do you need help finding your classes? Are you a first year?'

Harry blinked. 'No, I'm a third year.'

'Oh. Do you get very lonely then, walking alone to your classes?' She gave him a very sympathetic look. 'I'll walk with you, if you like. That sounds like something friends do.'

Luna was either decidedly odd or decidedly mis-Sorted. Even a Slytherin would have broken character by now if this was an act. 'It is, yeah.'

She frowned over this for a moment. Then a longer moment. She had the look of someone solving a complex maths problem like subtracting fractions. But then suddenly she smiled so brightly that Harry found he could only smile back.

'I hope Harry Potter is as nice as you are, Harry,' she said, as their carriage finally started rolling.

They had to separate once they reached the Great Hall, breaking off a surprisingly fascinating discussion about thestral breeding; Luna could see them too, as could anyone who had witnessed a death. Luna waved good-bye and skipped off to the Ravenclaw table, stumbling a little when the sandal on her left foot slipped off. She hopped the rest of the way on her moccasin. Harry shook his head and took the seat Ron had saved him.

'You do okay the rest of the ride?' Ron wondered.

'I nearly threw myself out the window around hour four,' Harry said. 'On the up side, I've invented a new game. It has eight thousand rules.'

'Welcome, welcome,' Dumbledore called from the head table. 'Yes, welcome back all. We begin another year full of promise and eager for the delights of academic adventure. And what a year awaits us! It is my great pleasure to announce something very exciting indeed: this year, our own Hogwarts will play host to our international colleagues from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Our visitors will be joining us in a nine month exchange for a very special purpose.' Dumbledore paused dramatically. 'This year will see the revival of the Triwizard Tournament!'

The reaction from the student body was immediate and gratifying. A few even dashed from their spots to huddle with friends of other Houses. The pitch of babble reached thunderous heights in seconds. The professors were all smiling indulgently, excepting Severus Snape, who looked dour as ever despite a festive robe of seafoam green. Dumbledore let it go on for a bit before he raised a hand for quiet.

'More detail to follow,' he promised. 'For now, be aware that our guests will arrive later this month, at which time dormitories will be sorted to integrate our guests with the appropriate years. Some amongst you have already received your notification that you will serve as School Ambassadors-- please rise, all of you.'

Harry struggled to rise from the bench, since no-one else pushed it back to allow him up. He made it onto one knee, fumbling to get his badge out of his pocket and pin it on. He stuck himself in the chest and winced.

Probably-Fred peered at him from across the table. 'Twat,' he said.

Ginny reached around Probably-George and smacked Fred. 'Language!' she scolded him.

'His badge said it, not me!' Fred protested.

'Triwizard Ambassador and Tutor,' Hermione read. 'Ohh. That is unfortunate.'

'Shut up,' Harry grumbled, checking the Hall to see who else had been twatted. Aster Kennedy was the female Gryffindor representative, a fifth year who was on the record for having asked Gilderoy Lockhart to sign something for her-- rumour had it she had volunteered her chest as a writing surface. She was standing with her hands modestly clasped before her now, smiling angelically. Wamalwa Babajide and Colm O'Leary had been chosen from Hufflepuff, and Sabine Newlittle and Niels Christensen from Ravenclaw. Su-jin Song and, somewhat surprisingly, Vincent Crabbe had risen for Slytherin. Crabbe was wearing his badge upside down and looked more dim than usual, thick brows meeting in the middle as he glared at the middle distance.

'And a rousing round of applause for our ambassadors,' Dumbledore said, clapping politely. 'Be seated, dear children. Now, for the rest of our announcements: our caretaker Reston Cravensworth would like me to remind you that the list of banned items has been updated and posted outside his office. Our Divination professor has come down with an unforeseen illness, so her classes will be postponed til next week. Schedules will be distributed at breakfast tomorrow morning; anyone who has elected to continue tutoring with our adjunct staff may turn in their forms with their Heads of House. And with that, let us turn our attention to something far more important. Let the feast begin!'

Ron smacked his hands together and rubbed. 'Finally,' he said fervently. 'I'm starving.'

'One day you'll stop growing up and start growing out,' Percy warned him, curving his arms out to mimic a large belly. Ron only shrugged and palmed his silverware as the platters filled with steaming food.

Harry was grabbing for a pork chop when the two most dreaded words in the English language were spoken in his ear.

'Hem hem.'

Harry reluctantly gave up the pork chop. 'Professor Umbridge,' he said, achieving a reasonably civil tone.

She smiled her sickly sweet smile at him as she placed a plate before him. 'Your special diet, Mr Potter,' she crooned.

Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he looked again, the plate was still there. Spinach, carrots, and a fillet of milk-boiled salmon.

'Don't forget your pudding,' she added, and placed a small bowl of sliced apple at his elbow. She patted his shoulder, ignoring his flinch, and returned to the head table. She served herself the biggest pork chop on the platter, Harry noticed.

'You can borrow my extendable pouch,' Hermione promised. 'We'll fill it with food and you can eat it later in the dorms. Don't get crumbs in it.'

'I recommend the duck,' Ron said around a mouthful, wiping gravy from his chin with a breadroll and stuffing the roll in after.

'Twat,' Harry muttered, slumping over his fish. It wasn't even warmed up. He looked to the head table, scanning for rescue from Sirius, but Sirius was tucking into a roast as if he hadn't eaten for years, probably in a bid to ignore Umbridge babying him from his side. Harry scooped up a bite of spinach and chewed mechanically. He reached to pour himself a cup of sugary pumpkin juice, hoping he'd found a loophole-- but he'd no sooner touched the jug than he discovered his cup was already full. Of milk.

Harry sighed.


	4. It Takes A Long Time To Become Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Old Is Made New Again._

The morning edition of _The Daily Prophet_ had quite a lot of news to announce. Harry rather reckoned in normal times the doings of a school, even the premier magical school in the United Kingdom, didn't gather so much notice, but the _Prophet_ had made Harry's every move front-page news for years and it hadn't precisely been a dull or idle few years at that. Rita Skeeter had once informed Harry-- foolishly believing he would be impressed, and therefore more complaisant to her constant demands for interviews-- that the _Prophet_ 's circulation figures had risen astronomically in his second year at Hogwarts. Between the news of Harry confronting a disguised Voldemort for possession of the Philosopher's Stone and his battle Christmas Day with Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, the _Prophet_ had achieved hitherto unreachable inroads into international readership. Even the Americans were subscribing en masse. The _Prophet_ had opened a satellite office in Salem, Massachusetts. Harry could hardly locate that on a map, much less bring himself to care what Americans thought of his doings. He had more than enough to get on with without adding that to his considerations.

But there it was in black ink: the Triwizard Tournament was trumpeted as the must-attend event of the year, exactly as everyone who'd been months in organising it had hoped. Tickets were already on sale and the _Prophet_ would hold a raffle for five events of the total.

'Total?' Hermione wondered. 'How many do you think there might be?'

'Seven,' Harry said, searching for the lemon marmalade for his toast. Seamus passed it, since he was clearly listening in with a keen ear for any details Harry might let slip. Harry supposed that detail was relatively harmless. 'Although I'm not sure if they're counting the balls and such.'

'Balls?' This perked the interest of several girls nearby. Possibly Harry had miscalculated interest in what had seemed to him a rather trivial thing. He watched, bemused, as the word 'ball' raced up and down the Gryffindor table, spreading like a contagion to the Hufflepuffs nearby and then onward in a wave. There were several squeals of delight and excited chatter about dancing and frocks and hair, of all things.

'What's all the ticket money pay for?' Ron asked.

'There's supposed to be a reward for the winner. And I think they're hoping they'll make back some of the expenses,' Harry added more quietly. Much of the Wizarding World was still a mystery to Harry, like how wizards collected taxes or what those taxes actually paid for, much less how the government could be involved in regulating a tournament without being on the hook to pay for any of it.

'Reward?' Dean asked, with a notable uptick of enthusiasm. 'How much?'

'Dunno.' Harry took a bite of his toast. 'I think a thousand galleons?'

Ron spat his tea. 'What!'

'Is that a lot?'

'You _know_ that's a lot,' Hermione chided him. 'It's a lot in Muggle money too. The conversion rate is especially favourable with the Wizarding market in a downswing.'

'Definitely,' Neville agreed. 'Me gran says now's the time to invest in Muggle securities.'

'Definitely,' Harry echoed, mystified.

'Attention,' McGonagall called from the head of the hall. 'Your Heads of House will be distributing your schedules now. Please hold any questions til after they have all been passed out-- no, Miss Patil, I have not yet had time to address your issue--'

Hermione wore her Christmas-come-early face, sitting upright on her bench near vibrating with joy. Her fingers were trembling with nerves as she fidgeted with something on a chain at her neck. It reminded Harry of Regulus. He regretted leaving on a less than positive note. Maybe a letter would smooth things over. It had always worked with Remus.

He wondered if they'd let him write Remus a letter. Then Harry could pretend it was just like his first year, when Remus still worked at Crowhill. When Crowhill had existed and Harry had still thought himself the luckiest boy in the world, finding a new home in a world of magic.

McGonagall came marching along the table, handing out parchment slips with elegantly penned timetables. Harry took his with a quick thanks, although it was immediately snatched out of his hand by Ron who bent over his and Harry's both to compare them. Hermione resisted his grab, however, engaging in an athletic squirm to avoid his long arm. 'No!' she said sharply, batting at him.

'Why can't I see? I wanna plan where we'll sit!'

'You always want to sit in the back, how does that require planning?'

'What's this Remedial Tutoring?' Harry asked, stretching to see his schedule. 'Do either of you have this?'

'Remedial Tutoring?' Hermione repeated in the appalled tones of someone scandalised to the core. 'Harry, did you... _fail something?'_

'No, I didn't _fail something_ ,' Harry mimicked her. 'I had EEs in everything except History of Magic and Transfiguration.'

'Harry!'

'Hermione!'

'Harry?'

'Herm-- oh. Hi, Luna.' Harry twisted about on his bench. 'Is that your schedule? I know we won't have any classes together, but we could still walk together if we're in the same parts of the castle.'

'Walking is excellent exercise,' Luna agreed.

'I, er, like your hair,' Hermione said with valiant courtesy.

'Thank you, I did it this morning,' Luna said, fingering the horribly mangled tresses that hung raggedly to her jaw.

'Did you chew it off?' Ron marvelled.

'I think it hides the problem very well,' Luna went on, pointing to the spot where Harry thought the girls had cut one of her locks. She was right, at least. Harry couldn't pick out where Luna's hair had been cut at all.

'Are you a friend of Harry's?' Hermione asked then, as she fished through her overstuffed bag.

'We met yesterday,' Luna replied. 'He's awfully decisive. I can see why you'd be reluctant to give him up.'

'Give him up?'

'Well, if he's my friend now.'

'Oh,' Harry said, startled. 'Er, I was sort of thinking we could be friends with multiple people at once. Like, you and I can be friends, and also anyone else we like.'

'That's sensible,' Luna nodded. 'I suppose we can give it a try.'

'...thanks.' Harry handed her back her schedule. 'I can walk you to everything but Flight. I'm meant to be at Divination then.'

'If only you'd been able to see it coming.'

Harry blinked. 'That was funny,' he said. On purpose. Luna smiled.

Hermione had found what she was looking for. One of her hair wraps, of robin's egg blue with unicorns. 'You can have it,' she said. 'If you'd like it.'

'Oh, I love it!' Luna took it eagerly and tied it. About her neck. She admired it with her chin mushed to her chest. 'It's darling.'

'Oh, er, for your hair, I thought... never mind,' Hermione sighed.

'How'd you fall in with Loony?' Fred wanted to know as Luna wandered off to the Ravenclaw table.

'George!' Percy scolded him. George peered around his twin from the other side with a scowl.

'Who's Loony?' Harry wanted to know.

'Loony Luna,' Ginny explained, sipping a coffee, or at least until Percy's attention fell on that and he launched into a lecture that would have done Mrs Weasley proud. Ginny ignored him and added cream to her coffee. 'Luna's frightfully clever, but she is a bit odd. I didn't know you knew her.'

'We met last night.'

'And you're going to walk her to her classes?' Ginny seemed to approve. She gave him the last of the danish, at any rate. Harry even managed a bite before Umbridge hem-hemmed at him from the head table, pointing at his bowl of oatmeal. Harry slumped over it.

'That's gonna get old fast,' Ron said, finishing off Harry's danish before Percy could get in a lecture about that, too.

'I can't complain about being made to eat well.' He dragged his spoon through the porridge with a dispirited sigh. He'd have liked it sweetened, the way Dobby made it, creamy and rich. Filberts and blueberries weren't at all the same. 'If that's all she's got to throw at me, I can survive.'

 

 

 

Luna had Care of Magical Creatures first off-- Harry waved at Charlie Weasley and Hagrid, the both of them with rolled-up sleeves and dirty hands standing over a large mound of freshly dug-up soil that smellt, Harry thought, robustly foul. Luna, at least, didn't seem to mind it, remarking in her dreamy way that it was set to be a fine day and it was lovely to be out of doors for it. Harry agreed-- he had Defence and was headed for the Pitch as soon as he'd dropped her off, but he took the time to be seen with Luna, and marked who was marking his presence beside her. Most who noticed him were only curious, but a few looked dismayed, and Harry made a point of giving Luna a hug where everyone could see it done, and promising loudly enough to be heard that he'd pick her up after class. Feeling smug with his success, Harry trotted off.

Sirius looked well enough-- which was to say he didn't look hung over, something that had become rather rare lately. Maybe Umbridge had watched what he was eating, too. He gave Harry a subdued smile, but didn't otherwise single him out, and Harry joined Ron and Neville in the back of the crowd of Gryffindors and Slytherins rather than stay up front near his guardian. Sirius couldn't play favourites, as a professor, but even if he'd been inclined to, Savage was sure to pick on Harry if he put himself in the line of fire.

'Welcome back, younglings,' Sirius called them to order, as the bell signalled the start of the hour. 'Let's begin with stretches. You all remember the routine. Spread out, give yourselves a good amount of space, that's it. Arms out to your sides, deep breaths.' He demonstrated, chest rising and falling in a way that made a few of the sillier girls-- Lavender and Tracey chief amongst them-- giggle and whisper, but Sirius manfully ignored it. 'Jumping jacks to start, we're going to do ten reps. One! Two! Three!'

Harry obediently jumped along, clapping his hands above his head in ragged time with the rest of the students. Not everyone participated enthusiastically, and Savage walked between them, correcting a stance here and there, chiding Millie to stop hunching and get moving. Neville managed to trip over his own feet, and Harry helped him up just in time to get scolded for losing count. Savage made him do two extra jumps before he moved on, and by then Sirius was leading everyone in core rotations, so Harry hurried to catch up. The bent-over shoulder raises was Harry's real problem-- the sword harness tended to slide and he would get a sold bang from the pommel every time-- but he looked over mid-struggle to see Millie refusing to participate at all, despite Savage haranguing her. Sirius brushed past it, though, and Savage stumped back up to front as Sirius instructed everyone to draw their wands.

Harry was generally exempted from wand exercises in Defence, but the other teachers preferred Harry to keep using wands as much as possible rather than rely on his sword, and he'd decided he ought to try it in Defence, too. He touched the sword over his shoulder, reminding it to behave, and drew the last of his batch of used wands. It was oak, with dragon heartstring, fourteen inches, and a very stubborn wand at that. Draco watched him give a shake, and wisely backed up another few feet to give him room.

'Here's a familiar one,' Sirius said. 'Shield charm. On three, with all your strength-- shake out those summer cobwebs--'

Harry spoke the _Protego_ with his classmates, giving his wand a firm slash through the air. Nothing happened. He did it again, and got a sputtering glow. It faded out before anyone else's.

'Right, Harry,' Sirius sighed, coming toward him. 'Try again.'

'Sorry.' Harry renewed his stance and concentrated on getting the movement exactly right. Wand at a precise forty-five degree angle, elbow locked at the downswing. Sirius stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. Not even a sputtering glow this time.

'Try _Protego Maxima_ ,' Sirius encouraged him.

That worked. After a fashion. Dean and Blaise hurried to help Sirius back to his feet when Harry's shield knocked him clear back on his bum.

'Pair off,' Savage told everyone. 'We're going to practise jinxes. Starting with the Leglocker.'

Everyone stood near Harry did a runner to get partnered before they could be stuck with him. Harry couldn't blame them. He didn't move, letting everyone scramble around him, and shrugged it off when Sirius elected to partner with the unlucky loser-- Draco shoved Goyle off so he could get Crabbe, and Goyle turned in a few futile circles before realising he was without any other choices. Goyle looked very relieved when Sirius saved him a damning fate. If that left Harry with no-one but Savage, well, bad luck for him.

'You should be able to master this,' Savage told Harry, when three successive attempts had yielded nothing. 'It's a second year jinx. I've seen you do it.'

'Maybe it's the wand,' Harry said through gritted teeth.

'The wizard wields the wand, not the other way round.' Savage flicked his wand at Harry. _'Locomotor Mortis!'_

Harry knew from the moment he put his wand in motion it was done even pretending to respond to him. Instinct kicked in, and Harry dodged. The jinx winged past his right knee, and Parvati Patil shrieked when it took her from behind, toppling her into her partner Pansy Parkinson.

'You can't run from everything,' Savage said, and his wand swung again. _'Locomotor Mortis!'_

 _'Protego Maxima!'_ A weight like a brick wall slammed Harry face-first. He splattered to the sand with a groan.

'Up,' Savage said relentlessly, reaching down to yank Harry back to his feet. 'Come on, Potter, you can do this. Try to jinx me.'

He spread his feet evenly and renewed his grip on his wand, ignoring the throb in his nose. _'Locomotor--_ '

The wand exploded.

 

 

 

Harry's first trip of the schoolyear to the infirmary was accompanied by a lecture from Miss Applebaum, who prised splinters from his bleeding hand, slathered him with salve, and bandaged him up all whilst telling Sirius all the many ways Harry could have died. Having his carotid artery slit by flying wood was especially gruesome, Harry thought. He was inclined to shrug it off, personally-- exploding wands on his first day of class was no cakewalk, but he'd had so much worse he hardly thought it warranted so much doom and gloom. But Sirius was surprisingly distressed, and Harry looked on with alarm when Sirius swiped a hand across wet eyes and fairly sprinted for the door the moment Miss Applebaum concluded Harry's treatment.

'You may return to class,' Miss Applebaum told him, though she softened her tone a bit, apparently surprised herself to be taken so seriously. 'You'll, er, you'll have to come back tomorrow so I can check your progress and change the bindings. Don't get them wet, but you ought to be fine.'

'Thank you.' Harry flexed his fingers carefully. The tips protruding from the bandage were swollen and purple, and the two missing fingernails were alarming, but all in all it wasn't so bad. He gathered his bag with his other hand and strung it over his shoulder.

'Mr Potter?'

'Professor Umbridge.' Harry hid his hand behind his back, sheer instinct. He was tutted at immediately, and reluctantly presented it for inspection when Umbridge expectantly waited on him.

'And how exactly did this happen?' Umbridge wanted to know, examining his hand thoroughly.

'Defence class,' Harry said.

'Yes, I saw your guardian pass in the corridor.' Umbridge stood frowning at him, tapping one finger to her chin. She had a little shrubbery of wispy hairs there, Harry noticed. 'Do you find yourself in many such "accidents", Mr Potter?'

'Not really.'

'No? Your medical records say otherwise. Headaches, this supposed magical allergy, a broken wrist one year and a broken ankle the next, vanished bones--'

'Those were connected, and anyway Lockhart vanished my foot bones, not me,' Harry protested.

'Dozens of visits each year,' Umbridge went on thoughtfully. 'Yes, I think I begin to see. It's a wonder no-one else has put it together.'

'What?' Harry asked warily, sure that boded ill.

'You may proceed to class, Mr Potter,' Umbridge said. 'We'll continue this later.'

Harry gave her a dubious nod. 'Yes, ma'am. Er... yes.' He circled her gingerly, and headed for the door. She was still watching him when he glanced back. He hurried out.

 

 

 

With his hand out of commission, Harry was relegated to sitting and watching in his remaining classes. McGonagall was exasperated to discover him already problematic, before he'd so much as attempted his first assignment, and set him to sit and read the chapter everyone else would have for homework. By happy coincidence, McGonagall partnered him with Terry Boot, who like most Ravenclaws had read quite far ahead and who had been much of the summer researching all that could be found about the Sword of Gryffindor. He had very complex theories and told Harry about them at length. Harry understood perhaps two words in ten, but agreed it sounded quite possible, whatever it was.

'You are meant to be at the computation of Transfigurative factors,' McGonagall reproached them. 'Mr Potter, you might apply yourself to factoring the wand power of the sword, given your manifest difficulties with wands.'

'Professor?' He paused her moving on, and she turned back, arms folding into the voluminous sleeves of her tartan robe. 'Isn't it supposed to be possible for wizards to use more than one wand?'

'Wand theory is beyond the scope of this class, young man.'

'How am I supposed to factor wand power if I don't understand wands?'

McGonagall grimaced. 'Very well.' She flicked her own wand at a stool, and it scrambled on its three legs across the tile to slide into place beneath her as she sat. 'Yes, it is supposed to be possible for wizards to use more than one wand. Theoretically, every wand is interchangeable, being only a tool with various affinities, though those affinities are traditionally matched to a wizard or witch's particular strengths. Wandmakers such as Ollivander make much of this, though if you ask me there's quite a bit more salesmanship than solid theory in those shows he puts on in his shop. But it is also true that a wizard's reliance on his wand is an adaptive relationship-- a symbiosis, if you will, which deepens over time as the wizard and wand adapt to each other. For some, that relationship can prohibit the use of another wand in the event something unfortunate happens to their original.'

'Might that be why I have so much trouble with wands? Because Tom Riddle took mine.'

McGonagall glanced about her with a little flinch. It was true the name had pricked ears nearby, but everyone at least pretended to be looking elsewhere if they were the least bit clever. Unlike Harry, who had not been very clever to go practically shouting out a name that had been much trumpeted in newspapers and Lockhart's ruddy new book.

'It may be so,' McGonagall agreed more quietly. 'It might also be that the Sword of Gryffindor has something of a mind of its own, and has expressed a clear preference to be your one and only weapon. A wand cannot do that. The extent of its influence over your magic is, as yet...' She spread her hands helplessly. 'Unknown. But if you want my advice, my boy, I'd caution against giving up wands entirely.'

'Everyone does,' Harry sighed, reaching over his shoulder to finger the pommel of the sword. It was warm and welcoming as always. If not a little oblivious to all the ruckus it was causing. Then again, it was a sword, not a person, even if it sometimes seemed to Harry it had its own kind of personality. A silly personality.

'I suppose, Potter,' McGonagall said, rising from her seat, 'you might also consider switching hands for a time. It's not generally advisable, as our brains and our magic are the way they are for a reason, but you don't appear to have much choice in the matter.' She turned away, then back, frowning anew. 'Potter,' she said, 'are you left-handed or right?'

'Right-handed, ma'am.'

'Always? Or were you encouraged to write with your right hand in your Muggle school?'

Harry was taken aback at this. 'I dunno, Professor. I think they taught us all the same way?'

She was fully facing him again. 'In Quidditch. You carry the Quaffle in your left hand. I've seen it.'

'I do? I suppose so,' Harry replied, at a loss.

'You do,' Terry chimed in. 'There's only two left-handed players in the Leagues at present. Historically there's only been a few dozen. I don't reckon Aneurin "Misty" Jones counts, since the wyvern bit off his hand when he tried to catch the Snitch out of its mouth. He did win the match, though.'

'Yes, thank you for that lesson in Quidditch history, Mr Boot. Potter, I don't know if you're aware, but the practise of training children to write with a non-dominant hand has been discounted out of recognition of the damage it does to the child's development. We are dextral by nature, and forced ambidextrousness can cause all manner of difficulties, physical and mental. If you truly are meant to be left-handed, it might explain any number of set-backs. Logical reasoning, memory retrieval, hyperactivity, reading disability, and, in magical children, lifelong deficits in their magical power. It quite literally limits your ability to access your magical core. Why-- why, this might even connect to your magical allergy. It may be a manifestion of your-- Severus, I must fetch Severus-- oh, but class. Class!' she said, completing her turn away. 'Dismissed, all of you. Read Chapter One and summarise in a six-inch outline for next class. Dismissed! Not you, Potter.'

'Oh.' Harry sank back into his chair. 'Um, all right. But I was planning to walk a friend of mine--'

'What?'

'A friend of mine? Luna Lovegood? She's a second year.'

'Miss Lovegood?' McGonagall reconsidered him. 'I must say, Potter, you surprise me.'

'I-- didn't mean to?'

'You are very much like your mother,' his professor said abruptly, or so it seemed to Harry, who blinked. 'She was a soft touch, too. Go on, then. But report to my office after supper, if you will.'

'Um, okay.' Harry let Terry stuff his book back into his bag for him, and shouldered it. 'You really think this stuff about left- or right-hands explains my magical allergy?'

'I shouldn't get too far ahead of myself, but I must say it fits neatly.' She seemed rather chuffed about it, all told. 'Tonight, Potter, don't forget.'

'All right.' Harry shrugged at Terry, who shrugged back, and they headed for the door. 'Thanks for your help,' Harry told him, letting Terry precede him out.

'Always interestin', Potter,' Terry answered with marked approval, and left him in the corridor to make of his sudden free time what he would.

 

 

 

By the time Harry's first day back at school ended, he was utterly exhausted.

Charms had gone no better than Defence or Transfiguration. Dolores Umbridge was by no stretch of the imagination a good teacher. Her preferred means were to dictate droning recitations of theory in her most condescending voice, talking at them as if they were toddlers at story time. At least Harry didn't need a wand-- no-one did. Umbridge only rarely let anyone actually cast spells in her class. That didn't look set to change. She'd also found a really horrid textbook, so old it hadn't even been printed in the current century, and if that weren't dull enough, it appeared to have plenty of commentary on blood status. Hermione was in high dudgeon by page five, and that was before Umbridge had the class re-seat themselves-- Muggleborns in the back, half-bloods in the middle, Purebloods in front. 'Just a little experiment,' she said brightly, with one of her fake little giggles.

'Honestly!' Hermione spat as they left Charms. She was pumping her legs at such a pace that only Ron, with his longer stride, was able to keep up with her, but for obvious reasons Ron was finding discretion to be the better part of valour, and he hung back well out of her way. 'As if Pure blood was anything other than a fashionable concept, anyway!' Hermione raged on. 'In the Renaissance it was all titles and lands and which monarch granted what favour. Now all that frippery's gone away and all that's left is this ridiculous notion that geneology has anything at all to do with talent!'

'Me mam says,' Seamus began.

'No-one cares what your mum has to say about anything,' Dean told him with unexpected heat. 'Your mum didn't even tell your dad she was a witch til after the wedding vows.'

'Oh yeah? Your dad tell your mam before the vows?'

Dean's dark skin flushed. 'Well I wouldn't know, would I? Since he was killed by Pureblood Death Eaters before I--'

'Before Harry killed off the biggest Pureblood Purist there was,' Neville said. 'And we're all better for it.'

That silenced everyone. Including Harry, who fishmouthed, unsure what to say. 'You're... welcome?'

'What do _you_ think of the seating assignments, Harry?' asked Miranda Thorne. He didn't know her especially well, but she'd been sat in back with the Muggleborns, and had spent the hour shooting longing looks to the front where her dormmate Lavender had steadfastly refused to acknowledge her. Lavender had made fast tracks out of class, as well, but she'd not got so far ahead she didn't hear that particular question, and she was lingering at the stairs, plainly waiting on his answer, and she was not the only one. All eyes were on him, and it was just like first year, everyone all too interested in Harry's opinion of things. Only he was older and more experienced in the Wizarding World now, and he knew he must choose his words carefully.

But, in the end, there was really only one right thing to say. 'Blood politics is bollocks,' he said, and headed for the stairs at a steady clip. No-one stopped him going.

Luna was waiting for him outside the Potions classroom, when Harry arrived huffing and puffing from having run clear across the entire castle. If he had to do this every day all year, at least he'd be awfully fit by the end of it, he reflected. 'Hi,' he said breathlessly. 'Sorry-- stairs-- didn't cooperate.'

'Ah,' Luna said with a wise nod. 'I find it helps to get to know them. They're really quite sweet if you take the time.'

'Get to know-- stairs?'

'The limestone are terrible gossips, though. Quite leaky, limestone.'

'Right.' Harry wiped sweat from his forehead. 'Um, shall I walk you back to your dorms?'

'If it's that important to you. Ravenclaw seems well out of your way.'

'It's that important,' Harry said firmly. 'Come on. You'll still have a half hour before dinner. I can come back and get you--'

'Harry Potter.'

'Yes? Oh. You've realised finally.'

'Realised what?'

Harry stared at her. 'You just go about saying "Harry Potter" then?'

'No. Professor Snape is inside, and he just called out "Harry Potter".' She pointed through the half-closed door.

'Oh.' Harry peered through. 'Sir?'

Snape was standing at his desk leaning over a book. 'I thought I heard your voice out there,' he said, waving Harry in. 'Professor McGonagall's just sent me a rather excitable message. Why did you never disclose to me you were left-handed?'

'Er, do we need to do this right now? I wanted to walk Luna back to her dorm.'

'Miss Lovegood?' Snape straightened to give Harry a look of narrow-eyed contemplation. 'Hm.'

'What hm?'

'She's still quite young. _You're_ still quite young. Although your father certainly never let age stop him. I suppose it was too much to ask you take after your mother.'

'McGonagall's just said I was like her. Wait, what are you talking about, age?'

'What are you doing with Miss Lovegood?'

'People bully her. I don't like bullies.'

Snape gave him a searing look. 'Well,' he said.

'Can I go? Luna.'

'Yes, fine. Go. Be prompt at your appointment with Professor McGonagall. I'll be attending as well.'

Harry stifled his groan. If Snape was attending, it was going to be hours long. But he nodded his obedience, and turned to collect Luna on his way out.

It was, in fact, hours. McGonagall and Snape and Fawkes-- the phoenix showed up uninvited, ate half a tin of McGonagall's best Scottish shortbread, belched thunderously, and took a long snoring nap after-- subjected Harry to a battery of tests. Some were familiar; they had, after all, been testing him for his allergy since his first year. Several had to do with testing his supposed left-handedness. It was true Harry used his left hand for some things, like brushing his teeth or hair, but for most things he used his right. He ate with his right. Well, he ate with both hands-- he held his fork with his left and pushed food onto the tines with the knife in the right, like most people did. He tied his shoes with both hands. Pulled on his trousers with both hands.

'Do you do other things with both hands?' Snape wondered archly, peering at Harry over his large nose.

'Other things?'

'Other things. _Private_ things.'

'Severus!' Suddenly McGonagall was bright red and quite flustered. Fawkes squawked sleepily at her shriek.

'It is medically relevant,' Snape said primly. 'Stop your gormless gawping, Potter. Here.' He presented his own wand. Harry took it slowly, holding it gingerly with his injured hand. 'Cast something.'

'What?'

'Are you or are you not a wizard? Cast a spell, Potter.'

Harry gave Snape's wand a flick. _'Lumos.'_ It flickered to life, a soft orangey glow. _'Nox.'_

'Very well. Now the left hand.'

'Hem hem.'

Harry's shoulders went tight. Deep breath, he told himself. It was no consolation that both Snape and McGonagall looked like they'd sucked a lemon. No-one liked Umbridge. It didn't get them out of dealing with her.

Umbridge stood in the door of McGonagall's office, her chubby hands folded over each other. She had changed after supper and now wore a dressing gown of fuzzy bubblegum pink, her pink-frosted hair in curlers and covered with a lace cap. She was smiling-- she was always smiling, Harry thought resignedly, and wondered if she used a charm to keep it so firmly in place-- but more shocking than the unforgettable sight of a professor in their nightclothes was the sight of Sirius standing behind her, eyes red and puffy.

'Minerva, dear,' Umbridge said in her sugared tones, 'you really ought to have included Lord Potter in any discussion of his son's health.'

McGonagall's lined face was a study of conflict. 'You're right, Dolores, _dear,_ ' she answered thinly. 'Sirius, please forgive my oversight. I was so enthused at our new findings I overlooked you in the rush, and should not have.'

'New findings?' Umbridge questioned.

'I'm afraid any discussion of Potter's health should _not_ include someone he has not granted permission to participate,' Snape interjected with masterfully played faux regret. 'The school's bylaws are quite clear as to our authority, or lack thereof, in overseeing student care.'

'Ordinarily that would be true, Severus,' Umbridge nodded. 'However, the care of all students is well within my remit under the Minister's most recent Education Decree. It was rather buried beneath other news this summer, but perhaps you might have noted it, back in July? I have been named a reporting member of the Wizengamot's Educational Oversight Committee, and my authority extends quite specifically to ensuring our students are healthy and safe. Given Mr Potter quite often finds himself in situations which are neither healthy nor safe, I have taken a special interest in his care. With the full cooperation of his guardian, Lord Potter, of course.'

Harry cast Sirius a look of betrayal. Sirius met his eyes only briefly, shuffling in place. 'All I want is for Harry to be safe,' he said softly.

'I am safe at Hogwarts,' Harry protested.

'Are you, Mr Potter?' Umbridge invited herself into the office fully, taking the empty chair beside Harry's, since neither McGonagall nor Snape had yet claimed it. She claimed something else, too, taking Harry's bandaged hand into hers and patting it gently. 'Will you explain again, Mr Potter, how you came to be injured?'

'Defence class. Sirius saw it.'

'For those of us who did not witness it, could you explain a little more fulsomely?'

'I don't exactly know how it happened,' Harry said sullenly. 'Something was wrong with the wand, I guess. It blew up.'

'It blew up, all on its own.'

'I guess. I was trying to cast the Leglocker jinx, and it just blew up.'

'Wands do not just blow up, Mr Potter,' she said, in the same way she lectured in class, as if he were an idiot made of glass who might shatter if she poked at him too hard. 'In fact I'm quite sure I've never heard of such a thing.'

'I don't know what else to tell you.'

'How very strange,' she said. She looked up at McGonagall and Snape. 'You are both so very learned in magic, dear friends. Have you heard of any such thing? Exploding wands which turn so violently on their owners?'

Snape's eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. 'No,' he admitted.

'No,' McGonagall seconded reluctantly. She took her own chair behind her desk, fingers tapping on the leathertop. 'But Potter does tend to find himself in the most unusual of magical mishaps.'

'Quite frequently, in fact.' Umbridge gave Harry's hand another pat. 'The teaching staff are all so very busy, with so very much to do-- both on and off the books-- that I quite understand how it passed you by. After all, who would even think to look for it? It's an entirely appalling thought, that a student might be purposefully harming himself.'

'Harming myself?' Harry yanked his hand back. 'I'm not!'

'It beggars the imagination that a single student should find himself in quite so many unusual and dangerous situations.' Umbridge gazed at him with oozing sympathy, but the show wasn't for Harry. It was for the other professors, and for Sirius, who still stood at the door, hands stuck deep in his pockets, head bowed toward the floor. Steadfastly avoiding Harry's attempts to catch his eyes. 'The only reasonable explanation is that these are not natural accidents. They are self-inflicted.'

'You think I made the wand blow up?' Harry could hardly believe it.

'You have just heard experts agree it could not have happened on its own,' Umbridge said gently. She reached across their chairs, but Harry wouldn't let her touch him again. She left her fingers on the arm of his chair, instead, with a sad little sigh. 'You are a troubled young man, Mr Potter. All the Wizarding World knows you were denied your birthright after the tragic deaths of your parents. To be thrust all suddenly into fame and fortune after a decade amongst Muggles who must have cruelly punished you for all nascent signs of your magical heritage would rock the steadiest of men, and you were but a boy. The sheer pressure of expectation must have overwhelmed you. After such deprivation in your childhood you craved validation and approval, you longed to feel safe and cared for. Perhaps it was a genuine accident, the first incident. But it wasn't enough. And so you allowed yourself to become careless. You allowed yourself to be reckless. Until that wasn't enough, either. And now? You know no other way to express your fears.'

'What fears?'

'That you'll lose me the way you lost Remus,' Sirius said hoarsely. 'That you'll lose Remus all over again now. That the Tournament will be more than you can handle. That Tom Riddle will do something else you can't stop. Do I need to keep going?'

Harry found himself speechless. 'You... you believe this?'

'Harry. I don't know what else to think. I haven't... I haven't been there for you as I should have been. But I Firecalled Regulus and asked him what he thought.'

'What, he thinks this too?' Harry demanded, and it hit him, then. Everyone had been talking about this idea of him hurting himself. They believed it. And they were going to do something about it, that's what this was, some kind of intervention to stop him doing what they believed him doing, and it was going to be bad. It was hard to breathe, suddenly, and he didn't know what to do. 'Please don't,' he managed, through a throat gone impossibly tight.

'I was watching today,' Sirius said, and his eyes were wet again. 'You were just casting the Leglocker. There's no way that should have happened. You could have been really hurt, Harry. You could have hurt other people.'

'I didn't! I didn't-- I didn't do anything wrong!'

'I know what it's like to only feel-- safe-- to feel like people only care about you when... when you're hurting.' Sirius swallowed with evident difficulty. 'I did some pretty stupid things just to act out. It was almost like-- almost like it was reassuring, to get caught, to get in trouble, even, to be punished and not have it go too far. The things my mad mother would do, no-one would do that here. No matter how hard I pushed, no-one ever laid a hand on me, no-one locked me up in dark cupboards or starved me or used a Dark curse like it was nothing.' Sirius closed his eyes on a fresh fall of tears. But then he raised his head and looked at Snape directly. 'What I did to you was more about what I was going through than anything you'd done,' he said flatly. 'I'd run away that year. And I felt like hell and I couldn't explain it to anyone, much less myself. And you were just there, and I thought-- I didn't think it would really endanger you. But I can't say I might'nt have cared if I had done. I intended to go in after you. And he would have bit me, too, or killed me even, and I didn't care what it would do to Moony to live with that. I just wanted to drain off all the poison inside me. And you got in the way. I'm sorry.'

Snape was white as a scraped parchment, absolutely drained of all colour except for his black eyes, which were wider than Harry had ever seen them. If Snape so much as breathed, it wasn't evident. He was still as a statue. His bloodless lips were the only thing that twitched, and the words came out as if forced through granite. 'You're... sorry,' he whispered.

'I don't understand,' Harry began.

'I sent Snape into the Shrieking Shack when we were sixteen,' Sirius said. 'I knew there was a werewolf there. It was stupid and heartless and horrible. And I'm sorry. And I'm sorrier that I wouldn't ever have said anything if I hadn't seen it starting to happen to Harry too. But I know you care about Harry. Don't let what happened to me happen to him.'

Harry felt almost in a daze. It was too much information. The Shrieking Shack, he knew what that was, it was a house outside Hogsmeade, the most haunted house in Britain, that was the story, but he knew more than that. Remus was the werewolf. Remus had been in there, Remus had been there on a full moon, that's what Sirius was saying, and Sirius had sent Snape there to face a werewolf, when they were sixteen and still in school-- that was why Snape hated Sirius and Remus so much, he'd known all along that Remus was a werewolf because he'd seen it for himself, could have died seeing it for himself. 'But I'm not doing that,' Harry said weakly. 'I'm not...'

'Maybe you don't realise it yet,' Sirius said. 'But when I saw what you did today, I knew.'

'Sir,' Harry appealed to Snape. 'You know I wouldn't do that.'

Snape blinked back to life. His hand rose, hesitated on its journey, and fell again. 'Potter,' he started, but didn't finish. He wiped at his mouth so hard it left imprints on his skin. He walked abruptly for the door, pushed past Sirius, and left. The sound of his heels striking the stone like gunshots faded rapidly.

'Professor,' Harry tried McGonagall.

But she was no aid, either. 'I need to think on what's been said here,' she told him, or maybe the room in general, as she seemed unable to meet his eyes now too. 'It's a great deal to consider.'

'I agree,' Umbridge nodded. 'But I think we all agree, as well, that we must immediately intercede for Harry's health. I had already begun to take action on what I thought were symptoms of a different nature, but I see now I must repurpose myself. You have three hours scheduled with me tomorrow, Mr Potter.'

He shook his head, automatic denial, til the thought finally swum up out of the cloud in his head. 'I've classes all day tomorrow, and--'

'Remedial Tutoring. I had planned to use the time to address your academic deficiencies, but I see now it's all of a piece. I think it best we use the time to talk, Mr Potter, just you and I, in a safe space, where you can express yourself freely. And, perhaps, begin to heal, both outside and in.'

'I don't need to heal.'

'Harry,' Sirius said. His voice broke. 'Please.'

Harry stared at him. He couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing they would listen to. They were all watching him like he might explode, now, even Fawkes, who fixed a beady eye on him and chirruped soothingly. But Harry didn't want to be soothed.

They all flinched when he thrust himself to his feet. He heard Umbridge warn them to give him his space, as he stalked out. He'd soon see they only wanted what was best for him.

He passed Snape on his way down the steps into the Transfiguration classroom. Snape had only made it as far as a window, and stood there transfixed, his gaze locked on the expanse of Hogwarts' green grounds, the mountains in the distance, the Forbidden Forest. The Shrieking Shack, invisible beyond it, at Hogsmeade Village somewhere on the other side of the dark.

Harry didn't say anything to him. He sped into a run, and blew past him, letting the door slam behind him and not giving a damn if they all heard it.

 

 

 

His toes numbed at the first kick. The hurt followed swiftly, but he kept kicking, and punched too, the walls, the door, the glass of the mirror. The crack of the glass was immensely satisfying. The blood on his knuckles. He punched again, and shards clattered into the sink.

'Stop that,' a voice said-- maybe not the first time it had tried to get his attention. The hand on his wrist did, catching in the unravelling bandages. Percy put himself bodily in the way of Harry's next hit, rocked with the force of it. He let Harry get in another one, too, not even trying to protect himself, and that was what brought Harry out of his rage. He wiped at the wet on his face, a spatter of his own blood and snot and tears he hadn't even been aware of blurring his vision. He yanked off his glasses and hurled them away toward the showers. He almost went after them to stomp them to pieces, but Percy made a soft noise, and Harry slumped to the ground instead, burying his hands in his hair, closing his eyes against the pressure of the heels of his hands.

'Drink this,' Percy said, a long time later, it seemed. He hadn't even been aware of Percy leaving, but the older boy was back now, with a small phial of greenish glass. He held it to Harry's lips, and Harry sipped unprotesting, though it tasted vile. 'Calming draught,' Percy said, sinking to sit on the tile beside Harry. 'Give it a moment.'

'Did you have to tell Miss Applebaum to get it?' Harry wondered tightly, pulling at his hair til his scalp stung. It grounded him.

'No. The mind-Healers at Saint Mungo's gave them to me, for when I get like this.'

That raised Harry's head. 'What?'

'You're not mad. It would be mad not to feel like this, sometimes. After everything we saw.'

His eyes spilled again. Harry wiped his face on his sleeve. 'They think I'm mad.'

Percy didn't ask who. He only nodded. When he reached for Harry's hand, Harry let him have it. He rewound the bandages, and knelt up to wet a flannel in the sink and use it to clean the scrapes. That stung, too, but the potion was at its work, and Harry felt that each swipe was erasing his anger, wiping him away and wrapping him up in cotton. He let Percy pry off his shoes and check his feet for breaks. Percy bundled his socks into the cavities of his shoes and set them neatly aside, and then Percy just sat with him.

'I don't know what to do,' Harry said, a long time even later than that.

'I know,' Percy replied. 'If you ever figure it out, I'd be right interested to know the answer.'

'Is everyone waiting outside to see what I'm doing now?' Harry asked dully.

'No. It's after curfew. Everyone's in bed. I heard the noise and came to check.' Percy nodded toward Harry's battered hands. 'If you don't want anyone to know, come see me in the morning before you go down for breakfast. I've got a salve that should do for that.'

'Thanks.'

'Do you want me to stay?' Percy asked then.

He didn't know how to say yes. But Percy stayed anyway.


	5. In Secrets, Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which To Conceal Is To Reveal._

'Milk or sugar?'

'Both, and load 'em up, ta!'

Severus poured and added two generous spoonfuls of sugar, and carried the cup to the young lady sat across from his desk. Tonks rose to rescue it as it wobbled on the saucer, and managed to spill in her own lap as she sat with it. Severus summoned the kettle to refresh her tea.

'Ta,' Tonks said again, blushing sweetly. 'Better tea than potions, eh?'

Her clumsiness, though occasionally alarming-- Severus had long since starred and underlined his mental note to keep her well away from any cauldrons in his classroom-- was one of the many traits which endeared her to others. Watching her mop the tea stain from her frock with his kerchief was as close as he'd ever come to domestic bliss.

'Don't know how you manage better with one hand than I do with two,' Tonks sighed, slumping back. Then-- 'Oh... sorry. That didn't sound so horrible in my head.'

'It is not horrible at all, Miss Tonks. It was-- I think-- a compliment.'

'Ugh, Miss Tonks. You know you don't have to do that? Just Tonks, please and thank you.'

'Of course, Miss Tonks Just Tonks Please.'

She chortled over her biscuit. 'Now you sound like Dobby talking to Harry.'

Severus was sure he did not so much as blink over whatever flicker of guilt he might or might not have been feeling in the pit of his stomach. 'He's an industrious elf, at least. His garden has come along rather magnificently. He sent the Ichor Thistle just yesterday-- few herbologists can manage to cultivate it in Britain.'

'Did he grow those pretty flowers, too?' Tonks rose again, this time managing not to douse herself with tea, and approached the vase Severus had set on a small table beneath the lone window. She bent to sniff, but stopped herself with an Auror's caution, glancing back. 'What are they? Nothing poisonous?'

'Oleander.' He joined her there, heart thudding just a little too hard for something that required little evident effort. The delicate five-petalled pinwheels of new-dawn pink felt like satin against the fingertips. 'I grow them myself, actually. Pomona allots me space in her greenhouses, generally for potions, as you might imagine, but I have always been fond... always been fond of growing things solely for beauty.' He drew one of the stems from the vase, pretending there was no tremble in his fingers. He extended it across the distance between them. 'Pretty flower for a pretty lady,' he said, ever so slightly hoarse.

The knock at his door shattered the excruciating wait for her reply. Severus cleared his throat and turned away rapidly. 'Come,' he called brusquely, seating himself behind the barricade of his large oak desk, taking up his quill as if he had no business other than the summer essays arrayed before him.

No interruption would have been welcome just now, but Sirius Black darkening his door numbered high on the list of least desirables. 'Hullo, coz,' Black-- Potter-- greeted Tonks, quite rudely overlooking the person whose space he had invaded unasked. 'Nice flower,' he said.

'I-- er-- hiyas-- just leaving,' Tonks stuttered, and gathered her cloak in a sudden rush. 'I'll see you in class, Severus. Er, Snape. Er-- bye.' She tripped over the transom on her way out, and the door slammed behind her.

'What do you want, Potter,' Severus inquired coldly, marking through an entire paragraph rather than point out its specific inadequacies. He'd be out of red ink before the term was half begun, at this rate.

There was no immediate reply. Relucantly Severus angled his eyes up, expecting and bitterly fulfilled in his expectations to find Black roaming about putting his hands on everything with the unconscious ignorance of a man born entitled to everything he saw. If the man got himself turned into a toad touching some Dark artefact that just happened to be set on a shelf in Severus's private office, no-one could say it was Severus's fault. He'd have to find something tempting if this invasion was to become a common occurrence.

The mind shuddered back from such a horrible thought. God forfend.

'Andromeda turned her back on all that,' Black said.

'On all what?'

'The Pureblood rituals. Tonks won't understand the oleander.'

His quill scratched, leaving an unfortunate mark. 'I'm sure I have no idea what you mean.'

'Remus never understood it, either. Half-blood. Muggles don't have formal courtship, at least not in this century. One of the many things to love about them. Fast cars, fast food. Fast love.' Black gave the vase a flick with a thumbnail, a little 'dink' against the glass that carried for no longer than it took the man to about-face and present himself to the desk at last. 'Lily knew all about it, somehow. Enough to reject whatever Jamie sent her. Must've found a book in the library or something.'

Or had a friend who'd learnt the old ways from his Pureblood mother and made sure Lily was fully forewarned. Whatever good that effort had done him in the end. She'd married the man she'd once called an odious self-involved toe-rag. Never had a woman been named so well.

'Must have done,' he replied belatedly, and wetted his quill in the inkpot, touched it to the blotter, and affixed a Dreadful to the essay. 'Come to recant your tearful apology now there's no more adoring crowd to laud you for your heroic sensitivity?'

'No,' Black said bluntly, and sat himself uninvited. Severus considered vanishing the chair he sat on, and only stopped himself reaching for his wand with a heroic effort of his own. If he aroused Black's infamous temper they'd be all night at this, and he wanted quit of this 'conversation' as quickly as could be done.

'Then what?' he enquired, sitting back and letting his hand curl about the carved snake that was the wooden arm of his chair. Black's eyes flickered to it, lips pursing in a little moue of distaste. That muted, curiously, when his eyes switched then to the other arm, the pinned sleeve that concealed the missing hand. The hand his godson had removed in the Chamber of Secrets. Black swallowed visibly, shoulders tensing and then slumping.

'Harry won't speak to me,' he confessed softly. 'I was wondering... hoping... he'd come to you.'

No. No, indeed not. The boy had been pale and distant in his first Potions class, and had stubbornly ignored the overture Severus had been hours crafting deliberately to entice him out of his shell and hurry them both past this ugly business with Umbridge. Draco had rightfully gaped at Severus humbling himself so humiliatingly with a grunt of 'Adequate work, Potter'. Potter, the ungrateful brat, had refused to meet his eyes and uttered a stilted 'Sorry, sir,' as if that weren't a compliment a generation of students under Severus's tutelage would cheerfully murder to achieve. There was no pleasing the boy. And Potter had sent Umbridge to do his dirty work turning down Severus's offer to continue their private tutoring; the smug cretin had been all too full of seemingly innocent questions about what a former Death Eater could have to do with the Boy Who Lived, and there were no answers Severus was prepared to give her. It was moot, at any rate. She'd claimed significant chunks of Potter's limited free time for herself. Severus wished Potter well navigating those murky waters.

'Do you think...' Black savaged his lower lip. 'You agree with me, don't you? You think I'm right about him?'

'I'm neither your conscience nor your sounding board. You are his guardian, as you've been at pains to make clear every opportunity. It's your decision to make and yours alone.'

'I never thought I'd be a father. Not once I was disowned. You have no idea the relief that was.' Black picked up a paperweight to juggle in his large hands. There was no guarantee Pure bloodlines would confer a genetic gift of beauty, but Black had always been undeservedly blessed. He had elegant hands, hands that painters would paint and sculptors would long to capture in art. Severus had, or had had, the hands of a workingman, fit to his purpose but no more attractive than the rest of him. It had been one more thing to resent about his childhood tormentors. Black and his careless beauty. There had been a certain vicious irony in all those good looks withering away in Azkaban, never to pass on to a son who would no doubt continue his father's maraduing traditions.

'You're not a father,' Severus said. 'Harry Potter is the world's most famous orphan. Adoption doesn't change that.'

'No-one hands out a textbook, you know. Printed instructions with all the right answers.'

'There is an entire Parenting section at Flourish and Blott's,' Severus retorted, exasperated at this. 'In fact I rather imagine Lupin read a few chapters of Dr Spock when he set himself on finding Harry at that Muggle orphanage. Adoption was his scheme all along.'

'He's good at it. He's a natural with Harry.' Black set the paperweight back in its place with a shaking hand. 'I feel like an interloper sometimes,' he confessed in a fractured little whisper. 'I'm the one who doesn't belong in that house. They're happier without me.'

'Go away, Black. If you expect tea and sympathy, I'm fresh out.'

Black shut his eyes. 'Yeah. Of course.' He stood abruptly, hands in his pockets, turned for the door. Turned back. 'I only meant to tell you they're bringing Remus here. To the Chamber. Seems Tom Riddle talked a lot about it and what secrets he hid there. Scrimgeour wants Remus to walk the Aurors through it. It's hush-hush-- not official Auror business. Phoenix will know. I thought-- you might pass it on to Harry, if he talks to you.'

'Is that altogether wise?' Severus hesitated. 'I don't mean to... it's possible Lupin's mind is not altogether his own. That he's a dupe and a plant-- even if an unwilling one.'

'Hence the secrecy. If it blows up in everyone's face, at least it won't be public. We all know Umbridge is here to find dirt on Dumbledore, but I doubt she'd turn down the chance to catch Scrimgeour making an epic mistake like that.'

'Then you should be wary of letting her see too much of Harry. She's not after his best interests.'

'I'm not blind to that. But even wrong people stumble into the right answer once in a moon.' Black let himself out of the door, but paused there with his hand on the latch. 'Fetching shade of green Tonks was wearing,' he said over his shoulder. 'Don't remember ever seeing her in green before.'

If Severus had no-one to explain the flutter in his chest to, it was, he reflected gloomily, entirely his own fault. But damned if he'd talk girls over scotch with Sirius Black. A lonely scotch to watch the moon rise and contemplate the future-- well, there were worse ways to spend the evening.

 

 

 

'To think our Founders erected these very stones,' Albus mused. He touched a wizened hand to the runes carved in the menhir that stood double the height of any man, the henge formation stretched like reaching hands to the cavern's painted roof far overhead. The Chamber of Secrets was beautiful, there was no denying. Yet Severus strained to see the beauty in it. For him, it held only horrible memories. Death. Dishonour. An unfortunately literal disarmament.

'Do you really suppose knowledge of this place was lost with time?' Severus asked.

Twinkling blue eyes peered over the rims of gold spectacles to meet his gaze. 'No, I find that a bit difficult to swallow,' Albus allowed. 'Though I have not had the time I might have wished to devote to it, I did review the oldest records of our institution. Someone excised all mention of the Chamber with a clever little spell. Some ingenious combination of a glamour and a Notice-Me-Not, not unlike the wards which protect the passage to Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross. Wherever the word Chamber or Secrets was inscribed, my mind would glance aside and I would find myself distracted with something else. As you might imagine, a man of my age is frequently distracted by passing thoughts, Severus. But even an old doddard can only find himself pondering the desire for a good pair of woollen stockings so many times before he becomes suspicious.'

'Is there any way of tracing who suppressed the records?'

'A task for another time, perhaps. For now, it is more important that we recover what was lost.' Albus stepped beyond the standing stones, and nodded toward the waterfall that cascaded into the wide pool before them. 'Do you suppose, Severus, that the Chamber referred to in those records is this place, or the caverns beyond?'

Harry had told him of the crystal caves, and the strange visions he'd seen there. Albus had acknowledged that he'd travelled through the caves only after Severus confronted him with it, but, as ever, played his cards closer to the chest. Til now, apparently.

'I suppose the Founders built a school,' Severus said. 'A school has no other purpose than to ensure knowledge is preserved and passed down. Knowledge that is lost serves no-one. But one may further suppose that, in choosing to build a school, the Founders selected this spot not by accident, but by design. To preserve it.'

'For the sake of knowledge alone, or for some other purpose lost to time?' Albus folded his hands into his embroidered sleeves. 'Ah,' he said. 'Our company has arrived.'

So it had. Severus retreated to the shadows as the troops arrived. The Chief Auror led the way, striding along with that peculiar gait of a man flush with purpose. Behind him followed a select few who knew more than most members of the Wizengamot: the Order of the Phoenix had, at its best, a fuzzily-defined membership, ranging from warriors to scholars and allies to informants. These days, it overlapped with a group even more selective-- Harry's Knights of Jupiter. If Dumbledore knew the latter had begun to colonise his own organisation, he'd yet to indicate it. Severus had been at no pains to tell him. Harry had never asked it of him, but nonetheless Severus offered it. He was content, for now, to wait for Harry to grow old enough and wise enough to appreciate it.

Scrimgeour was followed by Tonks, Shacklebolt, and Savage. Three more of Hogwarts' staff were next, Minerva McGonagall, walking tall beside her diminutive colleague Filius Flitwick, and Charlie Weasley. Black was behind them, walking alongside his brother; they had a goodly clearance, a circle of unease which the elder defiantly ignored and the younger meekly suffered. Severus had only known Regulus Black in passing, being in a different year and not especially inclined toward anyone who bore that hated name. Nor had their paths crossed much outside Hogwarts. Though they'd both been sponsored into the Dark Lord's circle of loyalty by Lucius Malfoy, they'd had little contact, and Severus had no notion of what business Regulus engaged in for their master-- alive, Regulus hadn't been a very impressive specimen. Undead, or whatever he was now, he was under Harry's aegis, and Severus had engaged in a cautious outreach mostly to please the new master they shared now. Harry had accepted them both with the innocence of a boy who knew little of the depravity of which a fully fledged Death Eater was capable. Severus could envy a claim of not being able to remember those awful days. If it was true, Regulus was blessed. If it was a lie, Severus could hardly blame him wanting to forget.

Speaking of Lucius Malfoy, he, too, had earnt another trip to the Chamber, and seemed no more thrilled about it than Severus. Lucius kept his head high as ever. Severus sincerely wished his old friend a crick in the neck. There was no-one here to impress. Lucius serenely ignored the site of his ignoble defeat, merely drawing his sable cape closer about him in the chill. Fop, Severus dismissed him irritably, and turned his attention to the last of their number. Remus Lupin.

He walked alone, an isolation that was clearly a choice. Not even his lover breached those invisible walls, keeping his distance physically despite an unceasing assault of mournful cow eyes expressing all-too-intimate, all-too-public desires. Lupin had lost weight, and he looked an ill man. His Muggle clothes were an eyesore in this most magical of places, but Severus found it as clever a disguise now, cleverer even, than it had been even when Lupin had made his abrupt reappearance in Harry Potter's life. Who would credit a tweedy Muggle schoolmaster with a Dark creature's cruel soullessness? A wolf in sheep's clothing. Severus knew something of that, himself.

'If you don't mind, Albus, we've limited time,' Scrimgeour said.

'Of course, Rufus,' Albus murmured, inviting the Chief Auror to take centre stage. Scrimgeour planted himself facing their gathering, hands on his hips.

'We've got less than three weeks til the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive,' Scrimgeour informed them all, as if it could possibly be the first they'd heard of it. 'Security arrangements for everything above ground are well in hand, but I'd be a much happier man if we had like control over all below ground.' He tapped the wand holstered at his belt. 'Lupin, your report.'

All eyes turned to the wolfman. Lupin crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched to make himself smaller. 'Yes, sir,' he answered colourlessly. 'Tom first encountered the notion of the Chamber in a collection of antique writings being sold at Borgin and Burkes-- he worked summers there after he turned fourteen. They would buy out estates from those who were desperate-- for money, sometimes, for favours. Just to disappear. Tom would sort the holdings and determine what was in any condition to be sold in the storefront. Anything he flagged for special consideration went to a different sort of buyer out the back. And then there were the things Tom kept back for himself. He was clever enough not to steal anything large or unique enough to be missed, but he was building a rainy day fund to ensure he could leave Hogwarts completely independent. At first he favoured magical artefacts, but he discovered a few family grimoires, and then the real gold. Family secrets.'

Lucius made the slightest sound. It drew Severus's attention, though no-one else seemed to notice. The slight age lines that charms and cosmetics could not entirely erase painted tension on Malfoy's otherwise serene face. Yes, he would be the one who already knew that little tidbit. The Dark Lord had brought many to his side for the sheer joy of murder, rape, and rampage, but no few had been blackmailed for the sins they'd already committed. What scion of a Pureblood line wouldn't play along to keep certain unsavoury activities out of the headlines?

Lupin's pale eyes never lifted from the middle distance. 'Tom found the manuscript in an old scribe's desk. It appeared to be scraps, random pages, scratch paper, that sort of thing, but he'd learnt to look past appearances and he routinely applied spell cancellations to anything trying that hard to be innocuous. In this case, he was correct. It was only an oblique mention, even without the glamour, but it was enough to send him looking for other sources. Sometime in the thirteen hundreds there'd sprung up a prophecy, or at least a belief, that Slytherin's heir would emerge with all his secrets. There've been a few pretenders to the title, but whoever had written this particular manuscript was arguing that they couldn't truly be the Heir, or all would know the Chamber had been opened.' Lupin paused, lip caught between his teeth for a moment, but went on before he could be prompted. 'Long story short, Tom became obsessed with locating the Chamber. It would prove he was Slytherin's Heir, it would prove he was Pureblood royalty, it would prove he was the great warlock he was determined to be. But he had an advantage beyond those other pretenders.'

'He was a Parselmouth,' Severus guessed.

Lupin's eyes flicked to him, then away almost immediately. 'Yes. And he made great use of his skill. He would call snakes to Hogwarts. Call to the serpents already here, in portraits, statuary, and the like. He would conjure them obsessively.'

'I do recall our caretaker Gunnar Olafson was quite disturbed about an infestation in the early 1940s,' Albus murmured. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Tom had told me at our first meeting he could speak to snakes. I suspected him, naturally, but he claimed it was beyond his control. He seemed genuinely distressed by it. I believed him, more fool me.'

'When did he open the Chamber?' Black asked.

Lupin's eyes lingered longer this time. He swallowed hard as he dropped his gaze to his loafers. 'Just after his sixteenth birthday. There are multiple ways in-- he found one in a girl's loo on the second floor, of all places. I'd guess that came a little later in history. If I had to speculate, I'd assume the Chamber has been found several times over the centuries, and sealed back up again. Enough to keep the legend alive. This place was never meant to be lost. Who can know what measures the Founders put in place to ensure Hogwarts never forgot its origins?'

'Keep on the track, Lupin,' Scrimgeour warned him.

'There's little else to tell.' Lupin transferred his hands to his pockets, but his shoulders remained bunched up about his ears, his chin to his chest. 'There were plenty of wonders to explore in the Chamber, but Tom-- this Tom-- didn't have time to study them. He encountered the basilisk, and it was love at first sight. It didn't take him long to see the potential. And it intersected neatly with another pet project he'd been researching. Horcruxes.'

'Riddle used the basilisk to murder Myrtle Warren,' Shacklebolt said. 'And created his first Horcrux. The diary. Which trapped the Tom Riddle you resurrected in the Chamber at Christmas.'

'What Voldemort went on to do with access to the Chamber and its basilisk, Tom doesn't know,' Lupin shrugged. 'The real Tom seemed to realise he'd created something he couldn't completely trust, or at least control. He stopped all communication with the diary. How it ended out with Abraxas Malfoy, there may be no knowing. Peter didn't have the full story, at any rate, and he's the only one who's served both Tom and Voldemort.'

'Little rat never could stay loyal,' Black spat.

'Maybe once,' Lupin said. 'But he was corrupted. He went too far into the Dark.'

'And as I am the one who sent him there,' Albus interjected softly, 'he is yet another lost soul on my conscience.'

'He chose,' Severus replied shortly. 'We all chose.'

'One chooses from the options presented.'

'Mourn the unchangeable past on your own time,' Scrimgeour interrupted. 'Lupin's circled the point a bit, but the important facts are these. One: there are multiple entrances to the Chamber, and we may not yet know all of them, nor have any means of ever knowing if we do. Two: the means to open the Chamber cannot be circumvented without knowing all of them. Three: if we cannot prevent the Chamber being opened again, it is an unacceptable weakness in our defences.'

Savage nodded. 'What do you propose, sir?'

'A solution which may not be particularly elegant, nor as simple as we'd all prefer, but a solution which nonetheless will address each vulnerability. I propose we cave in the Chamber and seal it off for good.'

This was met with stunned silence. No-one, it seemed, wanted to be the first to respond, and so no-one did, for a long incredulous minute.

'Not simple?' It was Minerva, recovering first and most furiously. 'Not _simple_? You could collapse the whole bloody school caving in the foundations!'

'The knowledge, the mysteries,' Filius protested.

'The people,' Regulus said softly.

That brought everyone up short. Severus exhaled carefully. Yes. The people. The unnumbered dead in the crystal caverns, who might never be known, might never have the chance of a miraculous return like Regulus. The people they'd be giving up on.

'We can't,' Tonks said, and Severus closed his eyes. 'There's no way. We can't.'

'We may have to,' Scrimgeour disagreed. 'And those people would be no worse off than they are now. Those people are not alive.'

'Neither was I,' Regulus demurred.

'If either Riddle or He Who Must Not Be Named determine to strike Hogwarts again, it will be during the Tournament,' Scrimgeour rolled over him determinedly. 'We can be in no doubt of this. We _must_ protect Harry Potter--'

'At the cost of everyone else?' Tonks demanded.

'Yes,' Severus said.

Her look of betrayal speared him. He held himself unflinching. In this, he was as right as he'd ever been in anything.

'Yes,' Black echoed him bleakly. 'If that's what it takes.'

'Yes,' Lupin said, hoarse and pained but braced, as well, against any who would gainsay him.

'We don't know yet it's even possible,' Shacklebolt soothed Tonks. 'And we won't til we've studied it. I'll volunteer for that, sir. And we should look into moving those people, too, if it comes to that. We could remove them the same way we did the basilisk, and to the same place, I should think. The Unspeakables may be able to revive them somehow.'

'We have limited time,' Scrimgeour reminded them all. 'Study what we can, yes. But let us all agree right here and now there is a point past which we can no longer entertain academic questions of right and wrong. Only need. And our need is to protect Harry Potter and the students of this school against the extreme likelihood of attack by the most ruthless wizards of our time. A week before the delegations arrive, I want a solution I can act on.'

'Surely two or three days would be time enough,' Albus bargained calmly.

'Respectfully, Albus, no. A week. We need time to be sure.'

'Four days.'

Scrimgeour grimaced. 'Five,' he allowed reluctantly.

'Five. Thank you, Rufus.' Albus nodded gravely to all of them. 'We know the shape of our enemy, and we are rightfully resolved,' he said. 'Let us each to our tasks. A great deal depends on our success, and we have much to do in the meanwhile. And this is of utmost importance-- Harry must not know of our decision til it is too late for him to interfere. I fear he would be greatly distressed, though there is little he could do. Protecting him must include safeguarding his spirit. I would not have him burdened beyond what he can bear. So we must bear it for him.'

'I don't know if I can bear this,' Tonks whispered hotly, when Severus pulled even with her. He longed to touch her, his fist clenching impotently, but he refrained. She was like Lily in a temper. She loathed her own helplessness and would not welcome comforting. Indeed, in only a moment she had turned away from him, striding off after her Chief. She didn't look back.

Black was in a similar argument with Lupin. Unable to restrain himself, he'd gone to Lupin the moment they'd disbanded, and stood in passionate, if momentarily undertoned, debate with a man who wouldn't look him in the eye. It was perfectly plain that Lupin was miserable, and just as plain that Black was making him so. Severus turned in time to see Lupin cringe from Black's reaching hands. He stood it as long as he could, even letting Black press an unwelcome kiss to his lips, but Severus was unsurprised when Lupin at last flinched away.

'I don't understand,' Black cried. 'Why can't you--'

'I'm sorry,' Lupin hissed. 'Sirius... Sirius, I...'

'What did he do to you?' Black crowded after him as he tried to turn away, refusing to be put off despite his brother's warning, Lupin's obvious distress. 'Did he torture you? Did Peter? Was it the Moonflower Opal, was it-- did he-- Christ, Moony, you can't tell the difference between his touch and mine?'

'He didn't have to torture me. I did everything he wanted. He didn't even have to ask for it.'

Black could only shake his head. Like a puppet, like an automaton he could only shake his head, denial his only funciton. 'No,' he said, as if that made a damn bit of difference.

'I would only spread the poison to you,' Lupin said hollowly. 'I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you too much to do this to you.'

'I love you too,' Black tried, but it was futile. Lupin turned away, and this time Scrimgeour noticed the furore, and beckoned him to come. Lupin hurried to join the Chief Auror and the Headmaster at the standing stones, wiping at his cheeks as he went.

'I loathe this place,' Lucius muttered.

'That's the hell of it,' Severus agreed sourly. 'It's still better than anywhere else.'

 

 

 

**

 

 

 

'Smile,' Charlie said.

'Not now,' Regulus sighed.

Charlie grinned at him. 'Good for you. That was almost a definable emotion. But seriously. Smile.'

'There's not much to smile about.'

'And if you start giving up now you'll have nothing left at the end. No-one ever told you to fake it til you've made it?'

'Not unless that's the same as saving face so no-one can see you sweat.'

'I meant it a little more positively than that.'

'Reg?'

They turned away from the waterfall and the dark mouth of the cave at its apex. Remus stood behind them, and wore the sort of smile Regulus might have if he'd followed Charlie's advice. A queasy sort of smile, unhappy lines doing little to obscure the pain.

'They told me about you,' Remus said. 'I could hardly believe.'

'Yes.' Regulus shuffled from foot to foot, looked to Charlie for rescue. 'They told me about you, too.'

'Yes. Sirius... Sirius must be so glad.'

'It wasn't an even trade. Me for you.'

Remus shook his head. 'Don't say that. Don't say that, Reg. He mourned you so much. And I'm so glad Harry has the chance to know you.'

If Regulus still had circulating blood he would have flushed. 'I'm glad to know him.'

'How is... is he?'

Regulus gazed down at his blackened nails, pricking his dead skin. 'He's the strongest person I've ever known. But he's only a boy. He's-- worried, and angry, and tired.'

'It's not fair,' Remus said helplessly, almost inaudible beneath the roar of the waterfall. 'Another generation. It's not fair.'

No. It really wasn't.

'They've told me there's to be a Tournament,' Remus asked then, voice ticking up at the end as if he hoped he might be told it was all an amusing joke. 'I suppose it's too late to protest the wisdom of such an event. Just tell me how he's handling it?'

'As well as he can. He's gifted. He's special.'

'But he's only a boy,' Remus repeated him. 'Have you heard yet what the tasks will be?'

Charlie cleared his throat. 'That's not really something we can share.'

'With me,' Remus finished bitterly. He pushed his hair back, looping it behind his ears. 'No. That's wise. I know. I'm a security risk. Just-- support him? He needs to know he's loved.'

'Did Riddle know about the Tournament?'

'No. I think he would have told me. I don't know. He craves acknowledgement. He wants everyone to know how unspeakably clever he is. That doesn't happen if you keep your nefarious plans a secret.'

'He was like that, wasn't he?' The waterfall's mist against his cheek shouldn't have raised a shiver, but it did, sensation crawling across his skin. 'He used to... he used to gather us all together just to listen to him talk. Just to listen to us praise his genius.'

Charlie was looking at him. He couldn't read Charlie's face-- Charlie with his open face, his ready smiles, his expressive eyes. Remus he could read. Compassion. Empathy. Understanding all too well.

'Won't matter now when he knew,' Charlie said. 'It's in the papers. What matters is whether he's capable of hatching a plan and how much intell he has to use. Maybe destroying the Chamber is the right thing to do.'

'There's something we should see first.' Remus pushed at his hair again, trailed a thumb down his neck to the faint mark of a chain that had rubbed too long and hard. 'You especially, Reg. Scrimgeour's keeping the others occupied for the moment-- all we're meant to do is confirm it. Charlie, I don't know you should be with us, but I won't turn you away, if you want to keep with Reg.'

'I'm curious, at the very least,' Charlie allowed. 'Reg?'

'But I don't understand,' Regulus protested. 'What are we doing?'

'Well,' Remus said, turning to point his chin at the cave atop the waterfall. 'First, we're taking a bit of a climb.'

 

 

 

Harry had told him the story of their descent to the Chamber. That Regulus, or the shade of Regulus that he'd been then, had guided them to a long-hidden entrance to the crystal caves, and from there through to the Chamber itself. Regulus remembered nothing of it. But there was a strange tingle in his spine, as they walked the caverns now. It was not quite recognition. More like-- completion. Something he had been missing, and was now found. What was the word Remus had used? Confirmed.

Charlie lit their path with his wand, and all about them the glow bounced off crystal, refracted and fractured a thousand, a hundred thousand times over. It was slow going, slogging through the chilly waters of the caves. Charlie cast a warming charm on each of them, though Regulus, suddenly agitated, told him to save his breath. The magic meant little difference to someone who could barely feel it. In truth, he was cold all over, and his hands were shaking, his teeth chattering in his jaws. The dead were all about them, and it was an oppressive weight on him, a knowing what he owed and a knowing as well he could do nothing. He reached for the locket before he recalled he'd given it to Harry, and clenched his hand to his still heart, instead.

'There,' Remus said, his voice echoing off the cavern walls, though he'd spoken quietly and only for their small company. 'Tom's sigil.'

It didn't quite match the skull and snake that Regulus bore on his left arm. It was an earlier draft of the design, unfinished yet. The serpent's form curled in a double loop, but the head did not extend, fangs out to strike. Regulus drew back his sleeve to compare them, the etching on the crystal to the black ink on his skin. With a jolt, he realised the etching was more familiar to him.

'I've seen this before.'

'Scrimgeour thought you might have done.'

'How does he--'

'Because I thought you might have done.' Remus pointed into the darkness. 'It's that way. Not much farther, now.'

'Care to fill us in, or are you watching for his reaction to tell you something?' Charlie asked, falling in with Regulus as they followed Remus further on.

'I'm not deliberately being mysterious. I'm only not sure what I can say that won't sound-- insane.'

'I think we left "insane" behind last Christmas,' Charlie said drily.

'Rather much earlier than that, I'm afraid.' Remus clambered up a jagged outcrop, splashing water behind him, and reached for another sigil etched in the rock. 'Here,' he said. 'We go up.'

'Up' was a subjective descriptor. Regulus discovered there were steps, of a sort, little more than toeholds, but a definitive path that climbed the wall and disappeared into a vanishingly small tunnel. They crawled on their bellies, wiggling through crushingly tight spaces that prevented so much as a deep breath; Charlie with his broad shoulders struggled the most, and it took Regulus pushing from behind and Remus pulling from the front to get him through, but then Remus tumbled backward with a yelp, and Charlie only just caught himself from following after, grabbing at a jutting quartz to stop his fall. 'Remus!' he called, and his voice boomed like thunder, magnified a thousandfold by the crystal. He aimed his wand from the tunnel, angling to light the cavern. Regulus crept after him, peering over his arm to see.

There. Remus had landed at the bottom of a bowl-like structure, twitching dazedly. 'Ow,' they heard him say, with the perfect clarity of sound that the crystal produced. He rolled onto his side, and then it was his gasp that reverberated through the cave. He scrambled back, clinging to the side of the bowl to put distance between himself and the body he'd nearly landed on.

'We're coming down,' Charlie told him, and scooted out carefully, wedging a boot into the rock to descend at a more controlled pace. Regulus followed in his path, slipping and sliding where his numb hands couldn't grip well enough. Charlie caught him at the bottom, and levered him down closer to Remus.

'Who is he?' Charlie asked behind them.

Remus looked at Regulus. 'I have a feeling you know.'

The dead man-- was he dead? Regulus knelt slowly, aware of Charlie's hand on his shoulder, Remus sinking down beside him. He was an old man, older than Dumbledore even, snowy white hair and beared wisping about a thin, curiously unlined face. His clothes were of coarse material, as well preserved as his body, a long tunic of unevenly dyed green edged in silver thread, a cloak clasped at his shoulder with an elegantly jewelled pin-- a serpent in a double loop, eating its own tail, with eyes of emerald chips. Finely boned hands lay on the sunken chest, unmoving, but when Regulus reached to touch them, he found them warm.

'Who is he?' Charlie asked again. 'Reg?'

'He's Salazar Slytherin,' Regulus said. 'The Eternal One.'

 


	6. A Stitch In Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Speed Is A Determining Factor._

'EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!' Fawkes screeched, flapping his wings in Harry's face. Harry batted him away, and Fawkes yapped, claws digging into Harry's knee as he perched.

'Crazy bird,' Harry muttered, trying to keep his tea from spilling. But when he tried to set the cup safely out of the way, Fawkes let out an imperious caw and shoved his beak into it. Harry shook his head and let him have it. Fawkes slurped noisily.

Umbridge glared at the phoenix with no little distaste. 'Disgusting manners,' she said, though whether that referred to Fawkes or Harry he was unclear. 'The Headmaster shouldn't allow the beast full run of the castle.'

'I'm not sure there's really a way to stop him doing.' Umbridge had closed them into her office the first time, but Fawkes had come in the open window. Today, Umbridge had gone the precaution of closing door, window, and the flue of her hearth, but she had no sooner poured Harry a cup of tea to begin their session than Fawkes had appeared out of the rafters. Harry had to admit Fawkes was unusually badly behaved, but he was secretly grateful Fawkes seemed to like the tea. It was pink, like everything else in Umbridge's office-- she'd even painted the stone walls a horrid shade of rose. The tea smelled funny, and the one sip he'd had had made him feel funny, too, sour in the stomach. 'I think he likes your pink sugar crystals, Ma'am.'

Fawkes tossed his bright head back, gurgling tea. He'd left a bare sip behind, sediment swirling in the bottom of the cup. He burped, and settled in for a session of rigourous grooming.

Umbridge's jaw seemed clenched, her cheeks stiff with displeasure. 'You are here to talk, Mr Potter.'

He brushed off a bit of fuzz from his robe as Fawkes plucked and scratched his scarlet feathers. 'I don't know what to say.'

'You are a very troubled young man. Surely you'd feel a little better if you got something off your chest.'

'Like what?' he mumbled sullenly.

'Perhaps you'd like to talk about your home situation.' Umbridge tapped her carnation-coloured nails on her desk. 'You were living with Lord Potter and Lord Potter's-- friend.'

'And my grandda. Am living.'

'You must be as brave as everyone believes, if you are not at all afraid to keep house with a dangerous criminal.'

'Sirius wasn't guilty!'

'I referred to Mr Lupin. I suppose, having been raised by Muggles, you would not share in our long experience of Dark creatures, but your Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers must surely have exposed you to the dangers of underestimating even seemingly tame--'

'I know what tame is,' Harry told her frostily. 'Remus taught Care of Magical Creatures. He's a professor.' A  _real_ professor.

'And Lord Potter's brother?' Umbridge went on after a moment's censorious pause.

'What about him?'

'His... condition... is also-- unusual.'

'You mean being undead?'

Umbridge didn't like that any more than she liked Fawkes. 'Your blasé attitude is unbecoming of a boy your age.'

'Blah-what?'

'Blasé, Mr Potter. Unconcerned with the rather extraordinary circumstances of Mr Black's--' Umbridge seemed to struggle with the words. 'Return,' she said finally, with a pink-lipped frown.

'I'm not sure my being concerned about it would help anything,' Harry said flatly.

'I have heard most extraordinary tales of Mr Black's--' Again Umbridge cast about for the proper words. 'Your role in its... return to... whatever state it is in now.'

It struck Harry that 'it' was Regulus. 'I'm not supposed to talk about it,' he said. 'About  _him_.'

'Under whose orders, I wonder?' Umbridge tapped her nails. 'Surely not the Minister's.'

Harry wasn't at all sure he should answer, but it was a direct question. 'The Chief Auror's. Not so much orders, though. He said it was for the best I didn't.'

'If you spoke to your young friends, or to certain individuals of the press, that would be true. But here in my office, Mr Potter, I should very much prefer you to speak up.' She paused. 'More tea, perhaps?'

'Er, I'm all right.'

'Nonsense, you barely had any. I find a good tisane is so conducive to good conversation.' Harry fetched his cup, and Umbridge refilled it from the cat-shaped pot which was, naturally, pink with painted-on whiskers of white. Umbridge added a heaping spoonful of her pink sugar without asking him, but as Harry sat back with the newly full cup, Fawkes sprang into the air, startling him. Harry fumbled the cup and managed to keep it from dashing to the stone floor, but all the tea sloshed out, drenching him.

'Out!' Umbridge shrieked at Fawkes. 'Out, you foul thing!'

A knock at the door interrupted her before she could really get in a rage. Harry answered it hurriedly, privately just as glad Fawkes had chosen an opportune moment to act out; tisane might be Umbridge's preference, but personally Harry just as much preferred to keep his conversation to himself. He didn't at all like that she'd been asking any questions about Regulus or his family.

Fortunately, escape was nigh. It was Cedric, standing at polite attention, his hands clasped behind his back and his new Prefect badge gleaming on his chest. 'Professor Umbridge,' Cedric greeted the witch at the desk, nodding quite seriously. 'I've been sent to fetch Potter. The Headmaster would like to see him.'

'Go,' Umbridge dismissed him, clearly disgruntled with the whole attempt. 'Get this infernal pet of yours out of here.'

'Here, Fawkes.' Harry held out an arm. Fawkes came winging, alighting on his biceps and picking a path up to his shoulder, which made for much more stable walking for them both. Harry pulled the door shut and fairly flew down the stairs himself, glad as he had been in ages to put Umbridge behind him. 'Does Dumbledore really want me?' he asked Cedric in a whisper, as they clattered through the Defence classroom to freedom in the halls beyond.

'Yes, sorry,' Cedric apologised, easily outpacing Harry on his long legs and then falling back to match him. 'Actually, all the Prefects as well as all the Twats.'

'Har har.'

Cedric grinned at him. 'Sorry. It's catchy.'

That, and the twins had been after every opportunity to make sure it caught on. 'It's about the Tournament, then?'

'Sworn to strictest secrecy, sorry.' Cedric piously held up two fingers in a pledge. 'But my guess is we're going to be assigned duties for the arrival of the other schools.'

It took some effort to switch his brain over to thinking about the Tournament. Two weeks into term and he was already having trouble staying on top of things. It was going to be a long year.

Cedric's guess turned out to be correct. Dumbledore and McGonagall, who had charge of the Prefect programme, met them in an unused classroom with several rolls of parchment to distribute. 'Each of you,' they were told, 'will have a role in ensuring that our foreign guests are equipped to navigate Hogwarts with a minimum of difficulty. The Tournament is an opportunity to learn a great deal from our fellows, and to that end we intend to place a mix of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang in each House, as far as can be done given the distribution of male and female guests. Prefects, it has been agreed by each of the schools' administrations that you will have final authority, one less the teaching staff of course, to enforce the rules in the dormitories and the halls. To create a mutual sense of responsibility, our guests will be able to gain or lose House points just as much as any Hogwarts student.'

The Prefects didn't look particularly pleased about that, as it happened. Harry could well imagine Percy's reasons for the dismayed face he was pulling-- Gryffindors tended to lose a great deal of points throughout the year to pranks and misadventures as it was. Adding a lot of foreign students into the mix was likely to be rough going. Gryffindor, Harry concluded, would need to win every Quidditch game this year, with as many points a game as possible. He made a mental note to pass that on to Oliver to incorporate into their strategy.

'Our student Ambassadors,' McGonagall went on, 'should bring any questions or concerns to the Prefects or the staff without delay. There are bound to be cultural misunderstandings and these should not be allowed to fester. Make yourselves known as impartial parties, whom all can trust to be fair-minded. Each school handles student affairs differently; in Hogwarts, students are expected to manage themselves, but Beauxbatons and Durmstrang especially are more rigidly hierarchical, with younger students being honour-bound to bring their conflicts to older students and escalating appropriately as needed. It should not escape your notice that we did not choose all seventh years as Ambassadors, for the reason that we expect Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to learn as much about our culture as we will about theirs. You may have to work to gain their confidence, but let them see you conduct yourselves maturely and responsibly--' McGonagall canted a long stare at each of them over the rims of her spectacles-- 'And I have no doubts you will do so,' she added severely, 'and all will be well.'

'Our arrivals begin next week,' Dumbledore took over, whimsically twisting his long beard about his wandtip. 'Durmstrang are expected Monday next, and Beauxbatons Thursday. Beds will be added accordingly in each dorm, and I suggest you make time to meet with your Houses to acquaint them with the names of their new roommates, outlined here.' He gestured elegantly to the parchment rolls. 'Effort has been made to sort our guests into year-appropriate classes, so you will find their schedules are attached. You may find you have a bit of extra work ahead of you to orientate our guests, as some subjects will doubtless be new to them. Beauxbatons, for instance, does not have Astronomy, but rather Astrology, and Durmstrang has a number of classes we do not, especially the upper years, mainly focussed on the combat arts.'

'Combat?' Cedric asked curiously.

'May I suggest you pursue the subject with your future classmates,' McGonagall said. 'For now, I would like you all to sign up for at least four sessions apiece, here on the chalk board. You will design and lead a session for our guests and any Hogwarts students who should like to attend on each of the topics you choose.'

Harry's stomach sank. Public speaking was bottom of his list of favourite activities. Yet another thing to schedule.

The Headmaster must have caught something of his dismay, for he spoke up gently. 'We ask much of you, this is true,' he said. 'But only because we believe you are capable. Each of you were chosen for your great responsibilities because you have the qualities of leaders. You will do well, because you hold yourselves to high standards and would not accept anything less from yourselves. But do try to find a bit of fun in the midst of all this.'

'Leaving the Quidditch bits for Diggory and Potter,' said Wamalwa Babajide from Hufflepuff, once their professors had given them leave to mill about in front of the board choosing their topics.

'You take it,' Harry told his friend.

'You sure?' Cedric didn't wait long, however, chalking in his name on the slate. 'Why don't you want it?'

'You've played longer than me. And you'll be Hufflepuff Captain next year, it'll be good practise.'

'You don't know I'll be Captain.' Cedric sidled up the board, pursing his lips as he looked over what hadn't already been claimed. 'The team will vote between everyone who puts themselves up for it.'

'Oh. McGonagall chooses our Captain. I thought maybe Sprout chose yours.'

'Still doesn't mean she'd choose me.' Cedric signed himself up for British Cuisine. 'Mum's a great cook, I'll ask her.'

'Harry, you haven't chosen anything yet, everything good will be taken,' Percy pointed out.

It was true. Between all the prefects and student ambassadors, even a list of topics which had seemed intimidatingly broad was now filling up rapidly. Not surprisingly, the Ravenclaws had all finished by now and were already congregating to outline their notes. Several Slytherins had also already completed their sign-ups, though Crabbe was milling about chewing on his thumbnail, his thick brows contracted to a point over his snub nose.

'Do you need help deciding?' Harry asked him. Draco did do an awful lot for Crabbe and Goyle. Harry had always supposed it was because Draco was bossy and needed an outlet, but perhaps his dull friends had come to rely on him doing so.

Crabbe shot him a grateful glance. 'Anyfing look good?' he asked hesitantly.

'Um, what do you like to do? There's Games and Clubs. You could tell them about Gobstones.'

'I'm no good really at Gobstones. It's just funny when they splat all over you.'

'Well, you could say that, anyway.'

'All right.' Crabbe shuffled forward enough to pick up a bit of chalk. He bit his lip, glancing back at Harry.

Who began to have an inkling of just how bad the problem might be. He stepped up beside Crabbe, pointing out the word 'Gobstones' written in McGonagall's calligraphic hand. 'That one,' he said.

'Right.' Crabbe stabbed the chalk at the slate. He scrawled a shaky C-R-A-B-E. The B was malformed and backward besides.

'Two Bs,' Harry advised him quietly.

'I know,' Crabbe bit out, but there were faint red spots in his thick cheeks as he rubbed out the E with his sleeve and fixed it.

No-one was that thick, not even Crabbe. Harry chewed his lip, and picked up a bit of chalk for himself, signing his name under Muggle Inventions. He'd had a lot of practise explaining Muggle things to Mr Weasley and Sirius, and thought he could come up with something good for that topic. 'Crabbe,' he asked carefully, and very quietly indeed, 'can you see the board all right? I'm pretty well blind without my glasses, maybe you need glasses too?'

'Can see just fine.'

The harder question then, and the one he'd begun to suspect was all too true. 'How are you at reading, usually?'

Crabbe turned a stare of pure misery on him. 'Draco usually tells me what it says and what I've got to write.'

'Did Draco ever try to get you time with a tutor?'

'Don't want a tutor. Got Draco.'

'Finish up, please,' McGonagall called from the door. 'The dinner bell is in five minutes.'

Harry and Crabbe had indeed been left with slim pickings. Harry put himself down for Gringotts, reckoning he'd rather be the one to say something nice about goblins than have it come from someone with opinions like Umbridge, and more reluctantly took on History of Hogwarts, which not even the most studious of Ravenclaws had been willing to tackle, but he supposed Hermione could be persuaded to pitch in on that one. He gave up Ancient and Noble Status to Crabbe, not caring much for the topic himself and thinking Draco would manage it well enough for Crabbe. And then, pressed for time, he simply alternated their names for the last remaining options: he got Music and Dance and Incurable Curses, and Crabbe got--

Harry blinked. Had the topics just changed? He could have sworn the last two had read--

Dumbledore was watching when Harry threw a look over his shoulder. He arched a silvery brow at Harry, a small, nearly invisible smile on his lips.

Harry wiped out his last choices. Crabbe had Music and Dance and Incurable Curses, and Harry printed his own name under Voldemort's War and the Chamber of Secrets.

Dumbledore winked at him, and clapped his hands just as the bell began to peal. 'Lamb with mint sauce tonight, I believe,' he said happily, and led the chattering students on their way. 'A fine English meal to put us in the mood to appreciate our British heritage.'

Harry pulled a face. He doubted he'd be partaking any lamb-- Umbridge had yet to turn her attention off his meals. He was holding out hope she wouldn't keep it up all year, especially once things got really busy with the other schools and the Tournament. He hoped.

'Thanks, Potter,' Crabbe said, but stopped, a look of screwed up concentration on his face. He seized Harry by the robe, jerking him near.

'Hey,' Harry protested.

'Don't go telling no-one,' Crabbe threatened. 'No-one'll care anyways.'

'I care,' Harry said.

'Well-- don't.' Crabbe gave him a little warning shake, and let go. 'Thanks, though,' he added, perhaps confused to find himself both owing a favour and having no claim on the debt. 'Bye,' he mumbled, and left.

'Bye,' Harry sighed, smoothing down his wrinkled robe.

 

 

**

 

 

He didn't get lamb. Nut loaf, and mushroom gravy. Hermione, who had just this summer decided to dedicate herself to vegetarianism and had spent three long weeks haranguing them that 'meat is murder', congratulated Harry as if he'd actually chosen to eat this atrocity. She would happily switch, she said, if-- well. Harry sighed, poking warily at his loaf, and for once drank his full glass of milk with no protest. It was by far the better part of the meal.

 

 

**

 

 

'This is bunk,' Ron complained, giving his Divination textbook a solid toss across the room. It was a near miss of the open window, and thwapped into Ginny instead, who promptly hurled it right back. That went on apace for a bit til Percy separated them and set a twin to monitor each of them.  _That_ went on apace for approximately as long as it took for Percy to let down his guard and get absorbed in his own homework again.

'Loathe as I am to agree,' Hermione said, scowling as she flipped the pages of her own copy of the text, 'it really might be. Bunk, that is. This is the most thoroughly pompous baloney I've ever read!'

'Lockhart,' Harry corrected absently, using Hermione's collection of pink and yellow hi-lighters to underline a sentence.

Hermione could still blush when reminded she'd once, mistakenly, idolised the fraud who had taught their Defence Against the Dark Arts course last year. 'Possibly,' she admitted, but then her ire was back up as she gestured wildly at the Divination text. 'But just look at this! You'd think all these self-proclaimed Seers and Oracles had worked miracles to save us all from certain doom, but not a single mention of them doing anything actually useful, so far as I can tell. Why didn't any of them predict You Know Who? Or Grindelwald or Hannibal or Atilla or anyone important? They never stopped any wars or prevented anyone dying, that at least would justify how wonderful they clearly think they are. And why does this text only cover Western divination? It's not as if the ancient Greeks had a monopoly on vague blathering! My uncle converted to Buddhism in the 1960s and he says there's all sorts of wonderful traditions in China and Tibet--'

'Where?' Ron asked, and that diverted Hermione into an entirely new rant about how the students of Hogwarts would be far better served by a course in basic geography than this Divination rubbish.

Harry largely ignored the byplay, having long since learnt to tune it out. He didn't at all mind Divination, himself, since it was shaping up to be the easiest course on his schedule this year. It was true that Professor Trelawney looked to be missing a fair number of marbles, and she had shrieked in his face in the very first class that he was in grave danger, but since he was always in grave danger he was willing to give her that one. With that out of the way, it was just a lot of silly things like tea leaves and palm reading, and hardly any homework at all, as Trelawney did not believe the atmosphere of the dormitories was conducive to plunging the depths of the soul.

Astronomy, however, looked to be worse than Potions, in terms of the sheer amount of memorisation he was going to have to put in. He'd liked Earth Sciences well enough at Crowhill, having gone through a rather lengthy fascination with dinosaurs and then planets in general, so he already knew a fair lot of what they would cover first term. But second term went well beyond the natural phenomena that Muggles already knew about and into the magical properties of something called the electromagnetic spectrum, and there were whole chapters on solar astronomy, stellar astronomy, even extragallactic astronomy, and the entire back half of the book looked to be how astronomy affected every other field of magic-- which plants grew best under which astral influence in Herbology to which ancient civilisations had derived their numerology from lunar calendars still used in Arithmancy today. In ordinary times Harry thought he might have quite liked the subject, but he simply couldn't imagine he'd have any time to do more than just barely keep up with his classes. His chapter outline had become a meditation on the unknowable dimensions of time.

Quidditch.

The Tournament, which, even though he'd be out of the main competition by then once it had narrowed down to the School Champions who would see it through to the last events, would still absorb a lot of his waking hours thanks to his TWAT duties.

The fake Broom Making elective, which had yet to meet despite the many hints from his fellow students and various professors that they were merely waiting on him to arrange it.

And then there was all the time Umbridge wanted from him for their agonising 'talks', and any time he saved by dropping Potions tutoring with Snape would surely only be immediately absorbed by Transfiguration, as McGonagall had made it clear she meant to pursue the issue of his left- or right-handedness by taking him to Diagon Alley as soon as could be done to be properly fitted for a wand. She, at least, had decided to leave the issue of whether he was self-mutilating for attention to his guardian and to Umbridge. Fat lot of help that was. But he supposed if he did have a proper wand again, then it wouldn't go blowing up on him, and he wouldn't have to visit the clinic, and then no-one could accuse him of anything outrageous. So he'd determined to go along with her scheme. In his spare time.

Harry dug a finger under his glasses to press against the ache in his eyeballs. 'No time,' he muttered.

'Harry.' Hermione touched his arm, her lips pursed as she considered him. 'Are you all right?'

He seized one of Hermione's big rubber erasers and rubbed out everything back to the last coherent word he'd written. He blew the shavings off onto the carpet, clicked his mechanical pencil to a fresh length of lead, and bent back over his work with determination. 'It's fine,' he said, and wrote out the sentence he'd hi-lighted ten minutes ago, about the four large Gallilean moons orbiting Jupiter.

'Harry,' Hermione said again. 'Would you go for a walk with me?'

'Now? I really need to get this done.'

'It will only be a minute.'

'Take a break,' Ron piled on, already tossing down his quill. 'I'll go with you.'

'Not you, Ron,' Hermione told him immediately, and turned her back on his scowl. 'Just Harry. Come on, Harry.'

For a slender girl, Hermione was surprisingly strong. Harry didn't have a choice but to rise or lose his whole arm to her yanking. With a groan, he came off his floor cushion and stumbled along in her wake.

It wasn't particularly easy to find a private space for a chat, what with the sheer number of people loitering the halls on their way this direction or that, or the teachers and prefects on the lookout for couples snogging, or the eponymous portraits who had nothing else to do but stick their painted noses into everyone's business. 'We should have brought the invisibility cloak,' Harry grumbled, suffering himself to be led like a dog on a leash. No wonder Sirius and Remus had that ongoing argument about collars. It seemed extreme to go all the way outside, given the trip took fifteen minutes and there'd be the walking back and he really did have to do his homework--

Hermione finally let him go once they had reached the mid-point of the covered wooden bridge spanning the gulley from one of the Black Lake's tributary rivers. The breeze was just slightly chilly, signalling the end of summer. The afternoon sky was a deep blue, scattered with thready clouds. Despite himself, Harry felt the tense line of his spine relaxing, the taut muscles of his shoulders lose their rigidity. It would have been a fine day to fly. Or maybe to visit Hagrid. There was something about the clean smell of the outdoors that he could feel all the way down to his core.

'There, you look better,' Hermione murmured.

'Sorry.' He leant his elbows on the rail, closing his eyes. 'How did you know?'

'I recognised the look. From the mirror.' Hermione looked a bit embarrassed of herself when Harry peeked. 'I've been feeling... I've been feeling all stressed and then it just hit me how stupid I was being. I did it to myself. I chose it. Only you didn't, and I've just realised how unfair that is. And you really try hard and you never complain, so I think... I think I need to tell you something, if you promise to keep it a secret.'

'Oh,' Harry said, bemused. 'All right. A secret? Like a secret just between us or between us and the Knights sort of secret--'

'Just us.' Hermione pulled him about to face her, and loosed the chain of her necklace from about her neck. 'This is a time turner.'

'A what?' Harry adjusted his lenses to peer at the small charm dangling from the change. It looked like an hourglass no bigger than Hermione's thumbnail, bound in a gold disc with little etched stars surrounding it. Two rings of gold surrounded it, secured to the disc by tiny screws.

'A time turner. They're made by the Department of Mysteries, no-one fully knows how, but they use Hour Reversal Charms, which are really difficult spells most witches and wizards can't manage without a great deal of magical power. They let you go back hours in time. Professor McGonagall applied to the Ministry to let me use one so I could take more classes this year.'

'Take more classes? Oh, Hermione.'

Now her whole face was ablaze. 'Yes, well, it seemed important at the time.'

'So how many classes are you taking, exactly?' Harry narrowed his eyes at her. 'Hold on, that's how you've been popping in and out of shadows these last two weeks, isn't it? You'd be walking with us and then disappear, or not be with us and suddenly you would be. And it's why you wouldn't let Ron see your schedule.'

'Yes, although it's true he only ever wants to sit in the back, so it doesn't matter if he knows where I'm to be or not.' Hermione stopped herself going down that road with visible effort. 'I can't just give it to you outright, because then I wouldn't be able to go to all my classes and McGonagall would find out, but I think we could share it and no-one might know. It's not as much help as it seems, because you can't just keep going back in time without needing to sleep and eat eventually, trust me-- learnt that the hard way our first week-- and it's really important not to run into yourself, that causes all kinds of dire things, and you can't go back years or anything but at least you wouldn't be rushing so much to cram everything in. Maybe we could try it with me during the day, and then you can have it at night? 

Impulsively Harry hugged her. 'Only you,' he said, which wasn't nearly adequate, but she seemed to understand all he meant by it, for her smile was luminous.

Harry initiated the time turner that very night. Careful planning with Hermione had yielded some additional tricks to be mindful of, like how you didn't want to pop out of the ether like Dr Who's telephone spaceship and accidentally crush someone who happened to be standing where you landed. Hermione had chosen the loo which was haunted by Moaning Myrtle as a place greatly unlikely to have anyone loitering no matter the hour, and thought he could get away with using it too, so long as he was careful not to be seen coming in or out of a girls' lav. Harry solved that issue by bringing his invisibility cloak. It was a bit of work to wear it whilst using the time turner, but on the whole he thought precaution was better than the alternative. It wouldn't be just him in trouble if he got caught where he wasn't meant to be-- or, worse, where he wasn't meant to be at the same time as the original him was verifiably somewhere else. Hermione was taking a risk breaking the rules for him... though, as she'd pointed out with no little exasperation, if that were something that bothered her overmuch, their friendship would have died on the vine long ago.

So it was a great relief to be able to report success-- five hours after he'd departed, but a mere five minutes after he'd left Hermione's side. He'd spent most of it in the library, finishing all his homework for the week. Hermione offered to go over it for him, something he'd been too pressed for time to do if it meant he'd have to re-write anything. Umbridge wasn't the only one watching his marks, and he'd known she'd be only too happy to have him off to real 'Remedial Studies' if he began to slip. Now, confident he could keep them up on his own, or at least with Hermione's help, he accepted readily. Best of all, he slept well that night, worry free for the first time in a long time. Well. Free of the most immediate worries, anyway.

Tom was still out there. Voldemort's spirit. Remus. Not to mention all the people he was trying to avoid for thinking he was insane. But those were for tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

He fell asleep thinking that if Oliver Wood knew about the time turner, he'd absolutely tell Harry to use it to rest up before Quidditch matches, or even to make sure he could attend Gryffindor practises no matter how many classes and Twat work and all the rest he had to do. If fact, that wasn't a bad idea at all.

 

 

 

He was dreaming.

Even in the dream he remembered another dream, dreams that he'd had from his shared connection with Quirrell and Voldemort inside him. In those dreams, he'd walked in strange caves, far below the earth, seeking the Philosopher's Stone, or something near enough to the Stone to fool Dumbledore's magical protections.

He walked the caves now, but they were familiar to him, well-trodden paths he had walked so many times that he no longer had to mind his footing. The sound of scales sliding over rock drew him onward-- his basilisk, ever restless, searching the caves for the meagre prey that sustained it now it had been forbidden to hunt man. The light of his staff was just bright enough to catch on the gem-like crystals that sprouted everywhere, peppering the ceiling above with winking stars as if he walked an open field, not ancient caverns. His heart felt at home here, far more than it ever had in the world above. But his heart was so much smaller these days, so many pieces gone away and never returned to him.

The song of the crystals drew him on. Like the purest note of the heavens, it lured him toward the source though his steps were heavier the nearer he came. There was a new taste in the air, something bitter, something sharp... strange magic, alien magic, a flavour at once familiar and unknown. Had he encountered its like before? Could it be invaders, seeking a means to take Hogwarts from below? The wards should have kept all knaves and scoundrels beyond the gate, but it could well have been possible for one enterprising witch or wizard to sneak through, as no ward was foolproof, even Rowena's. Worse, though, would be a student, for the young ones unfortunate enough to be lost in the caves would be all too tempted by the wonders within and might find themselves ensnared forever, beyond all retrieval. No time would be long enough to ease the grief he carried for his beloved, lost these many years...

'Boy!'

The child rose at his shout. He crouched there in the light of-- no, that was no wand, that was a sword, and a sword that had no business here in the caves, when its master walked the hills above. Eyes green as the Emerald Sea looked wide on him, afeared and-- no. Not afraid. Chagrined, perhaps. Regretful.

'By the Blood, boy, get thee away from there,' he ordered, beckoning urgently.

'I'm sorry,' said the boy, and raised Godric's sword high, and gave it a mighty swing at the crystal wall beside him. With a resounding peal like a bell, the crystal shattered. The crack snaked, quick as lightning, up the wall to the ceiling, and raced onward, spreading and spreading and spreading--

And then it all came thundering down.

 

 

 

Harry woke with a gasp. He ran a shaking hand over his face, which was drenched in cold sweat. His heart was racing furiously.

'Harry?'

Neville. 'Sorry,' Harry said, the echo of the dream forming the word before he quite meant it. 'Sorry,' he said again, washing the strange taste from his mouth with a swallow. 'Did I shout?'

'Yeah.' Neville slid from his quilt and padded across the stone to Harry's bed, snagging a fist in Harry's red bed curtains. 'Nightmare, or _that_ kind of nightmare?'

'I'm... not sure.' No. No, he was. 'Something's happened,' he said. 'Something bad.'

'Where? Is it Riddle?'

'No.' Harry fumbled for his glasses, crammed them on. Green eyes. 'I think... Nev, I think it was me.'

'How?' Neville asked, in his practical way. 'You've been here all night. I'm sure of it, since Ron woke me up an hour ago when he went digging through his trunk looking for snacks.'

'I need to see Dumbledore.'

'Is that wise? It's the middle of the night. Closer to morning.'

'I need to see him.' Harry slid out of bed. 'Go back to sleep. Maybe it's just a dream. But if it's not, he needs to know.'

But the Headmaster's office was empty, when Harry at last ascended the spiral stairs and let himself in. He checked all the places he suspected were hidden doors, but none would open to him. 'Sir?' he called. 'Professor? Fawkes.' The phoenix was asleep at his perch, but waked to give Harry a groggy little chirrup before tucking his head beneath his wing again. Harry sighed as he stroked Fawkes's spine. He supposed he could go back to bed, but the absolute surety that something awful had happened rooted him to the spot. He needed to know.

'Well, well. I had no expectation of guests, young Master Harry.'

Harry woke again. He'd fallen into an uneasy doze in one of the wingback chairs before Dumbledore's great desk. Somehow, a warm blanket had found its way across his knees, and a small pillow had cushioned his cheek against the chairback. Harry was not at all surprised to see a cup of hot pumpkin juice awaiting him, steaming gently. The elves knew everything.

Dumbledore had just come in, it seemed, rather than just rising for the day, for though it was clearly dawn outside the window, pinkish light spearing the shadows of the large office, Dumbledore's robes were wrinkled and a bit damp, the dragging hem and the tips of his shoes muddy. Dumbledore knew he saw, and Harry knew Dumbledore saw he guessed at once what it meant.

'What happened to the caves,' Harry said.

The long lines of Dumbledore's face grew longer still. He sat in his throne-like chair behind the desk, sat heavily indeed, as if a great weight burdened him. He didn't answer, which, Harry reckoned, was answer enough.

'Why?' he asked, the way Neville had asked it, sure there was there was no answer for an impossible thing.

'Believe me, please,' Dumbledore answered quietly, 'it was not done lightly.'

'Can it be undone?'

'If it could be undone, we would have failed in our objective.'

'We?'

Dumbledore didn't want to tell him. There was something stubborn about his silence. But, strangely, he couldn't seem to meet Harry's eyes, and that more than anything made it clear just how reluctant he was.

So. All he knew was that something had happened, something bad, and Dumbledore had done it, Dumbledore and who knew who else. He had the time turner, or would have it if he woke Hermione up to borrow it. He could stop it. Or at least go back and figure out what it was, and then go back again and stop it. If there was any way to do that. Something so enormous as what he feared had been done, maybe that was too enormous for one boy to stop. He might get down to the caves just in time to be trapped there, like he'd been worried about in the dream, when he'd been that other man.

Harry rubbed his eyes beneath his lenses. The dream had been horrid confusing, really. He'd been himself and then not himself and then seeing himself-- but it hadn't been just a dream, or Dumbledore wouldn't have all but admitted it.

'Maybe I'm good at Divination after all,' Harry mumbled.

'You have many strange and wonderful gifts,' Dumbledore replied, chancing a glance sideways at him. 'I should not be surprised at one more.'

'Sir.' Harry sat up rigidly as he remembered. 'All the people in the pools, Voldemort's victims! What's happened to them?'

Dumbledore closed his eyes. His face was unfathomably sad. 'Nothing,' he said softly. 'Nothing at all.'

'But...'

'Harry,' Dumbledore interrupted, but not to scold or censure. Just his name.

He wiped at the wet on his face. Not sweat, this time. He felt rather unfathomably sad himself. It was more horrible than he had known. All those people.

He folded the blanket, and left it sitting on the chair with the pillow atop it. Fawkes squawked a sleepy good-bye, but Dumbledore said nothing at all. Harry left him behind without a word more.

 

 

**

 

 

Harry's dark mood went unabated through the weekend. His friends rallied to bring him out of it; Ron and Neville tried to distract him with, variously, games of chess and long discussions on goblin culture, which at least helped Harry prepare some notes for his upcoming lectures on Muggles and wizard banking. Hermione was scarce on the ground, but now Harry knew she was off using the time turner to attend every course humanly possible, he didn't take her absence personally. He'd seen the size of her Ancient Runes textbook and had absolutely no illusions she was off enjoying herself, even if she'd somehow fooled herself into believing that, poor girl. Draco and Cedric both offered to fly with him, though as Cedric was in a time-crunch of his own trying to fit his girlfriend into his Hermione-sized schedule, Harry let him off to spend time with Cho instead, and took Draco up on his proposal.

They didn't have the Quidditch pitch to themselves-- there was an impromptu pick-up game being played by several older students, who let them join in for a bit. Ginny was there, Harry noticed, and waved to her, receiving a blush in return. It didn't stop her doing her level best to beat him off his broom when he took the quaffle from her team. He bowed out of the game after scoring a few goals, and drifted toward the outer heights of the stands to just fly long, slow swoops. The feel of the wind in his hair was a bit like freedom, and he let himself think of nothing more strenuous than perfecting his barrel roll.

'You can't do anything about it,' Draco said.

Harry levelled off, and Draco dipped low to ride alongside him. Even in the wind, he had not so much as a hair out of place. Idly Harry wondered if he was still using Lockhart's pomade or if he'd finally perfected the sticking charm Harry had heard him practising at summer.

'Don't know what you mean,' Harry responded briefly. He tucked his feet into his broom's stirrups, done with playing for the moment. The fun had rather gone out of it.

'Whatever it is you're gnawing on like an old bone.'

Harry laid himself flat on his broom, resting his chin on his crossed hands. He felt Draco's touch to his back, the press of his knee as they drifted closer together.

'You can't do anything about it,' Draco said. 'So you should stop worrying at it.'

'I know,' Harry sighed. 'Once I would have said that and done it. Now... now I can't help feeling like there is something I could do, though, if I just knew what.'

'Is it your job to do something about everything?'

'The answer you're fishing for is "no"?'

'So you're bright enough when you want to be.' Draco guided him in a slow turn as they reached the far end of the stands. Harry let himself be pushed, Draco's body beside his ensuring his trajectory. 'So what are you going to do about the things you can do something about?'

'You can't give me five minutes to mope?'

'I can,' Draco acknowledged, but Harry felt eyes on him, and refused to look up. 'But I don't think you'd be able to stop at five. So it's in everyone's best interests that you don't start moping to begin with.'

'Because it's my job to do things no-one else can do.'

Caught by that logic, Draco only scowled. 'Maybe I just don't like the face you make when you're mopey.' He pulled an exaggerated frown, flapping his long eyelashes at Harry with limpid cow eyes. Harry primly stuck out his tongue.

'It feels like the world is getting too big,' Harry said, some time later, as they circled the pitch again.

'Only our corner of it.' The silence lingered just a little longer, and then Draco asked, 'Are you scared?'

'Of what?' Harry sat up, rolling his head on his shoulders. 'Of Tom Riddle? No. Of what he can do to people I care about, yes.'

'And you care about everyone, so.'

'So.' Harry freed his legs to swing. 'Scared of Umbridge? No. I have to keep humouring her because Dumbledore and everyone are afraid of giving Fudge more of a foothold here, or at least that's what I think. And Sirius is listening to her for some reason and Snape's off his nut and McGonagall pretends she's not taking anyone's side but it means she's not taking mine, so there's nothing I can do about that, either.'

'What about the Tournament?'

'What about the Tournament? It's the least of my worries.'

'You have to compete.'

'Just in the beginning.'

'You're not afraid of failing? Of not putting up a good show?'

'All I can do is the best I can do.'

'You can do like Granger and study everything under the sun in case it comes up.'

Even with the time turner, Harry knew there weren't enough hours in the day for him to do that. 'All I can do is the best I can do,' he repeated.

'So what are you moping about if you're not scared and you're not worried about people laughing at you?'

'You are such a Slytherin. There's more to life than comfort and being popular.'

'Not in school,' Draco retorted. 'Adults are meant to do the rest.'

Like making hard decisions. But that didn't mean they did the right thing.

'Crabbe can't read,' Harry said then.

Draco snorted. 'He's a dum-dum, but not that much of a dum-dum.'

'He can barely read, then. How's he pass classes?'

'I help him cheat, of course.'

'You should help him get help.'

'He's got parents.'

'I don't understand you,' Harry accused, frustrated suddenly. 'What's the good in not helping him?'

'What's the good in exposing him? He'll get held back and since he won't improve he'll eventually get expelled, and they'll break his wand and then he's no better than a squib, not that he's much better than a squib now. Do you know how hard it was to get him nominated for Triwizard Ambassador? I had to promise Father all sorts of outrageous things.'

'You-- are helping him?' Harry blinked at this. 'But how does making him a Twat help? It's just loads of pressure and things he'll really struggle to do.'

'Yes. But it will be something he can say when he applies to be someone's apprentice someday, and that'll be enough to get him hired on somewhere. Someone somewhere will take care of him.'

'So kind of you.'

'It is,' Draco said, giving him a whack. 'He is my friend.'

'You are  _such_ a Slytherin.'

'Just because you Gryffindors think the only way to be friends is to die for each other doesn't make you right. I could be ages tutoring him personally with my own blood, sweat, and tears, and he'd still be a dum-dum. All I can do for him is give him a fighting chance to grow up enough to sire a new generation of dum-dums with some poor woman his parents contract for him.'

'Don't you ever get tired of being so cynical?'

'You mean tired of being right? It's a burden.'

That only brought Dumbledore to mind, and the way he'd looked a thousand years old. Like whatever he'd done to the caves had bruised some essential part of his soul. I'm sorry, Dream Harry had said, but it was Dumbledore who'd looked as if no number of sorries could wipe the shame clean.

'Maybe I am scared,' Harry said. 'That the world is too big and I'm too little.'

Draco's hand was warm on his back. 'Don't be such a Gryffindor,' he said, and took off on a little burst of speed. Harry smiled, and followed.


	7. Welcome To The Rodeo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Bold Beginnings Make Questionable Progress._

Harry popped from the air behind a statue of Æthelthryth the White Witch. Hastily he arranged his robes, tucking the time turner down the neck of his shirt and securing the knot of his tie, checking to see his TWAT badge was still pinned properly, and hurried out to join his friends in the courtyard. He'd timed it a little too close, and just caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye of a dark-haired boy hustling through the crowd in the opposite direction, spilling library books from the large pile in his arms before he vanished through the Great Door. Harry winced at himself. Hermione would not be pleased with him-- which was why he wouldn't mention it when he traded in the time turner tonight, he decided. Not solely to spare himself the lecture. Hermione would worry at it, and he was doing enough worrying for the both of them and several other people besides.

'Oh,' Ron said, blinking as Harry took his place, panting just slightly, at his friend's side. 'Thought you had to wee?'

'Changed my mind,' Harry replied absently, dumping his rucksack into an out-of-the-path corner and giving it a solid kick to stay put. 'Did it start yet?'

'They've landed. Or whatever you call it when they come popping up out of the water like that.'

Ron had got them a good view from the covered walkway alongside the cloister. He was quite tall enough on his own not to need any assistance to peer over the heads of the rest of Hogwarts' students, but Ginny and Hermione had taken the additional vantage of climbing up into the empty arch and were excitedly pointing out the Durmstrang ship that had been spotted an hour ago arising majestically from the waters of the Black Lake. Harry and Hermione had spent a fruitless twenty minutes attempting to explain submarine travel, but Harry could admit that there was something wonderfully fanciful about making the journey not in a typical submarine, but a black-tarred, full-sail ship like the paintings of the Spanish Armada threatening England's shores. All it wanted to complete the romance was Queen Elizabeth in her armour to rally the troops, Harry thought whimsically. True, they had Dumbledore, who managed to gleam in the bright autumn sunlight, and McGonagall beside him had appropriately ginger hair, and their troops were a bunch of bored teenagers desperate for a little distraction from the monotony of classes, but all the same Harry's heart was fully in it. He cheered as madly as all the rest as the ship docked at the long pier which had appeared just the other day. Another rousing cheer went up when small figures began to debark the ship, milling about momentarily on the pier before forming an orderly queue three abreast and marching for shore.

'Wowzer,' Ron marvelled, angling to peer between Ginny and Hermione's stockinged legs. 'I heard Durmstrang's totally Unplottable-- not even the professors know where it is, they have it in their contracts that they get Oblivated when they leave so they can't reveal its secrets.'

'Oh really?' Hermione inquired rather tartly. 'And where did you hear this?'

'Dean,' Ron shrugged.

'Dean,' Hermione repeated flatly. 'And who did Dean hear it from?'

'How should I know? Maybe he read it or something, in a book.'

'A book like Hogwarts: A History, perhaps?'

'Sure, I reckon.'

'Ronald Weasley!' She aimed a smack down on the top of his red head. 'I've only been telling you things like that from the book for weeks! Who do you think Dean got it from!'

'All right, all right, no need to brag about it. Sheesh,' Ron added to Harry, not at all quietly enough to escape a second smack, this time from his sister.

'Prefects and Ambassadors!' McGonagall summoned them, and Harry abandoned his friends to hop to. The queue of Hogwarts greeters stood to both sides of the pier where it made landfall, a somewhat more ragged line than that of Durmstrang, despite Percy's efforts to straighten out the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs who stood to the left. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins to the right were all perfectly paced from each other and stood with their shoulders level, backs upright, and chins docked haughtily in the air. Harry rolled his eyes at this no-doubt well-practised display of Pureblood hauteur.

If not quite stylishly, the thing still got done, and it was not long before Harry stood applauding and grinning at the passing of the Durmstrang students. They were a stirring sight, that was sure. Unlike Hogwarts students, who wore a black robe over shirt and tie, Durmstrang wore robes of crimson trimmed in thick fur, cut to hang open like a long coat over the grey woollens beneath. They were rather overdressed for the mild weather, in fact, and not a few of them were perspiring as their tall shiny boots thudded into the soft mud of the Lake's shoreline. Fortunately, a toast over a cool glass of pumpkin juice awaited them in the shade of the Great Hall inside. Harry fell in with his fellow TWATs and the prefects as the Durmstrang contingent at last dwindled, and he followed at a trot as they wrapped up the procession past the beaming row of Hogwarts professors.

The Great Hall had been transformed, the long rows of tables which sat Hogwarts students at their meals momentarily retired in favour of a smaller U-shape surrounding a small buffet of afternoon tea delights. No-one immediately moved to sample or indeed to sit, however: Durmstrang were all standing at parade rest, and the Hogwarts greeters had all been very sternly instructed to wait on their guests before serving themselves, and so they too stood about awaiting a sign for how to proceed. They looked a bit like opposing teams of a red rover game, Harry thought, all facing off and ready to capture anyone who dared blitz for the other side.

'Welcome, welcome,' Dumbledore's voice rang out, and Harry relaxed a bit, reassured they hadn't been accidentally abandoned by the adults. The professors came sweeping in now, Dumbledore in the lead and the man Harry knew to be the Durmstrang Headmaster at his side. Every member of the Order of the Phoenix had an opinion to share on Igor Karkaroff, and Harry had read all the old newsprint articles Hermione had dug up on him as well. Karkaroff was a tall, thickly bearded fellow who scowled over arms crossed into the furred sleeves of his blood-red robe. He looked, Harry supposed, like a Death Eater, as much as any Death Eater Harry had ever known-- which was to say, deadly capable. He had a face made of thickly carved lines, an arrogant curl of his thin lips, as if the smell of the place offended him and the company was worse. Dumbledore, Harry noticed, did not smile at his companion, and walked along as did Karkaroff, with a hand not-so-casually resting on the wand sheathed in his belt. Harry discovered himself fingering the hilt of his sword at his shoulder, and clasped his hands damply before him. Percy caught his eyes momentarily, and gave him a subdued smile. Harry returned it with a little grimace.

'Welcome indeed,' Dumbledore said, coming to a stop at the precise mid-point between Durmstrang's students and Hogwarts'. 'You are all most heartily welcome at Hogwarts. Our history of friendly rivalry may go back centuries, but older still is the history of mutual respect for our storied institutions. To stand here with you in the latest iteration of our famed Triwizard Tournament, I am reminded of the strengths of our fair community. Truly, our youth are our future, and I cannot feel anything but great hope for our future, with youths such as these to represent us. Welcome to Hogwarts!'

Harry politely clapped his hands. Mindful of his Ambassadorial role, Harry transferred his attention to the students themselves. There were some twenty-seven of them; Snape had guessed they'd send a number of some significance, mystical significance, that was, holding more with numerology than the British generally did. A multiple of three, and a multiple of nine against three, which, Hermione had explained from her monstrously large arithmancy text, were both highly significant numbers and therefore almost a true number according to someone Greek named Pythonosaurus or something Harry couldn't quite remember. He didn't completely understand it all, but accepted it was important to someone and therefore likely to impact him in the sheer number of people with whom he was going to be expected to make nice.

'Thank you,' Karkaroff replied, inclining his head in something vaguely like a bow but still suggestive of a courtesy only deigning to acknowledge Dumbledore's stature. 'We look forward to pitting our champions against yours. May the best wizard win.'

'Indeed,' Dumbledore agreed, a shade cooler given that rather bellicose response to his greeting. But he smoothed it over graciously. 'Please, my young friends, be seated. Take a little while to get to know one another, and then we shall have you about on a tour of the grounds to settle you in.'

Every seat at the U-shaped table had a little placard naming the student who was to sit there. Harry knew how painstaking the effort to arrange the seating had been: he'd been obliged to contribute his opinion, though he knew hardly anyone involved. It was meticulously done, with a Hogwarts student alternated between Durmstrang up and down the line, the the professors all seated at the bend together and everyone else arrayed beyond. Harry shuffled to his seat mid-way up the far bend, bumping into a tall blond boy in red robes who pardoned himself in halting English.

'Please allow me to apologise,' Harry answered in Norsk. He bent himself at the waist in a careful bow. 'May I help you find your seat?'

Deep-set blue eyes blinked at him. 'Takk,' the older boy said. 'Your school is... very nice.'

'Tusen takk,' Harry thanked him, bowing again. 'You're Magnus Rolvsson?'

'I am.' Harry was presented with a very large hand. It swallowed his in a very firm grasp. 'What is your name?'

'Er, Harry. Harry Potter.'

'Good to meet you, Potter.' Rolvsson leant in, lowering his voice to a whisper. 'I was hoping for more girls?' he asked on an uptick.

'Oh,' Harry said. 'Er... yeah, there's lots more. Later. In the-- er-- general population.'

'Tusen takk,' Rolvsson said with enthusiasm, and let Harry lead him to his seat.

It took a bit for everyone to get settled, and then the elves were working their usual magic. Tiered racks filled with plates of tea sandwiches, mini-quiches, samosas, and tarts, and pumpkin juice was served in chilled goblets for the students (the professors had beer, Harry overheard, though McGonagall negotiated her way into an afternoon whiskey). Harry managed to stuff in a cheddar and chutney and half a sausage roll before his plate vanished from his mat. Harry sagged. Umbridge had struck again. His replacement tea was pickled herring and boiled egg.

'Too hard to explain,' Harry told the Durmstrang boy beside him, who looked on curiously.

'I like fish,' the boy said. 'I vill trade you?'

He wasn't allowed to trade in the normal course of things, but all the professors agreed it was of utmost importance to make their guests feel at home. If the boy wanted fish, it was Harry's duty to give him fish. 'Sure,' Harry said, and they switched plates happily. 'I'm Harry,' Harry said, forking in a bite of quiche before anyone could stop him doing.

'Viktor.' They paused eating long enough to shake hands. The deadly grip seemed to be a commonality amongst the Durmstrang set. Harry wondered if maybe he was doing it wrong. He flexed numb fingers in his lap.

By and large, the Durmstrang crowd weren't much for talking. Karkaroff kept his conversation trimmed and to the point, issuing a booming 'yes' or 'no' to any question put to him. Harry made an attempt at headway, asking Viktor how their journey had gone-- yes, Viktor said, which Harry took to mean well enough, thanks-- and if he was looking forward to competing in the tournament-- another yes, though delivered with such a glum face Harry rather took it for a no. 'Hogwarts will be different than what you're used to, I expect,' Harry tried then, and got his first 'no', though it made as little sense to him as the rest of their talk, so he left Viktor in peace then and plied his trade with the girl who'd been sat to his left. She reminded him of Cho Chang, having the same style fringe cut square across her forehead, but unlike Cho she was quite shy and wouldn't respond to him, instead turning redder and redder in the cheeks til at last Viktor cleared his throat and informed Harry that at Durmstrang, women were not allowed to converse freely with boys to whom they had not been formally introduced. At least, that was what Harry got out of it once he'd translated Viktor's 'no's into English.

'Well,' Harry said slowly, 'how do I get formally introduced to her then? It's dashed hard to be sat next to each other and not be able to say anything.'

'You haff to meet her sponsor first. If you are acceptable, she will introduce you.'

'Oh. Like a chaperon?'

'I do not know this vord, chap-- chap--'

'Never mind,' Harry said. 'Um, so who's her sponsor?'

Viktor pointed. He had long hands with knobby knuckles. 'Her, with the yellow hair. Her name is Freyja Rúnarsdóttir. But she vill not like you much if you are so forvard.'

'Forv- forward?' Harry echoed, not sure he was grasping the point.

'So-- vat is-- rude?' Viktor tried. 'To persist so strongly.'

'I didn't mean to.' Bugger. Ten minutes in and Harry was already mucking up. 'Could I possibly ask for your help apologising? To, um, both the ladies.' He'd already forgot the long name Viktor had rattled off at him for the sponsor, and he'd never got so far as a name with the Cho-alike. 'I'm really very sorry.'

'You didn't know,' Viktor forgave him, or so Harry hoped it was, given Viktor's flat affect. 'They told us Hog-varts vould be different from Durmstrang.'

'To be expected, I reckon. Clash of cultures, and all.' Harry attempted a joke. 'I've really just prepared to be sorry from now til Christmas at least.'

'Yes,' Viktor said.

Well. That about accounted for Harry's ability to navigate tea. He kept to himself, after that.

The lack of initial enthusiasm translated to their tour. Classes had resumed for the rest of Hogwarts, though Harry didn't envy the teachers having to corral a gossip-thirsty school til feast time. Every single head turned toward them as their tour wandered through the Charms Classroom-- Harry was sure Umbridge had connived for her class to be the one they visited because it made her seem the most important, rather than simply being in the largest space to accommodate a roving tour of some fifty people. Umbridge primly called everyone to order and droned on with her lecture, which had a suspiciously high occurrence of the words 'pure' and 'blood' in it. Harry noted which of the Durmstrang students seemed to find that pleasing, and which did not.

The one thing that Durmstrang students did whole-heartedly enjoy was meeting Sirius. The tale of the escaped prisoner of Azkaban had travelled, so it seemed, helped along by a lingering reputation as something of a rabble-rouser in his exchange year at their school in his youth. It wasn't long before Sirius was joking with some of the older students, demonstrating a few wand moves, and promising to regale anyone interested in tales of his brief but intense Auror career. Some accepted with enthusiasm, but some, Harry noted, went quiet at that. It wasn't much of a leap to figure out why. Aurors hunted Dark wizards. And Dark wizards weren't limited to British shores.

'But you want to talk Dark wizards, you should ask the best in the business,' Sirius said, and Harry turned his head, suddenly aware something was about to go very wrong.

'Black,' Savage intervened, at least attempting to do it quietly, but Sirius was in high humour, showing off for his audience, and quite probably trying to get back in Harry's good graces, given the state of things between them. Sirius hardly glanced at his fellow instructor, not even to correct him to 'Potter' instead of 'Black'.

'Anyone know the tale of the Boy Who Lived?' Sirius asked the crowd, twirling his wand with a flourish between two fingers.

This elicited some excitement. 'We haff heard of him,' one younger boy said, before being shushed by an older student.

'But is he here?' dared one of the girls, and evidently this question was on every mind about her, for she was not shunned for speaking out of turn. Instead several of the Durmstrang students began to turn in their spots, heads craning, as if the Boy Who Lived might be posing on a riser nearby like a statue of heroes past. Harry fingered the time turner hanging about his neck, wondering if it was too late to slip back a few hours, put a horrible curse on Sirius or at least slip him one of the jinxed toffees the Weasley twins were selling this year. If Sirius's tongue were swollen the size of his arm he couldn't go blabbing about the legend of Harry Potter.

'Well you're in luck,' Sirius was saying with relish. 'Harry Potter is a student here, as it happens, and he's everything you've heard and more. Harry, lad, don't be shy. Terribly modest about it all, I'm sure he's ready to take my head with that plonking big sword of his. Sword of Gryffindor, you know. Harry was given it by Gryffindor's spirit, to defeat the Dark Lord on these very grounds.'

That was eliding the truth a bit, or at least smooshing so many elements of it together that it took on a new and nearly unrecognisable shape. Harry attempted to melt out of the crowd.

'Harry, love? Come up front, won't you?'

Oh, God. There was no escape. Harry's face felt hot and his feet tripped over themselves as he reluctantly obeyed Sirius's summons. Sirius's bright grin faltered a bit when he got a good look at Harry's face. He'd been about to pull Harry into the circle of his arm, but refrained, rather awkwardly crossing his arms over his chest, then clearing his throat.

'Harry Potter,' he told the crowd superfluously.

A hand went up. Then another. Sirius didn't call on them, and Savage was doing his usual scowly bit, so it fell to Harry. 'Um, yes?' he said.

'You are really the Boy Who Lives?'

'Um, yes,' Harry repeated. 'I mean, they call me that. In the newspapers and things. I'm Harry Potter.'

'And you fought a Dark Lord? And defeated him?'

'The defeated part's a bit up in the air at the moment,' Harry said. 'I did fight him. Twice. Well, two versions of him. And whatever it was happened when I was a baby and he tried to kill me.'

'Vy did he try to kill you?' came the question from another student. 'There vas a Speaking, maybe?'

'A what, sorry?'

'A Speaking,' the boy repeated. When Harry could only shrug, he conferred with his fellows in their own dialect, arguing back and forth til they reached some agreement. 'A prophecy,' he told Harry, enunciating it carefully.

'Oh. Er... I don't know,' Harry said. 'I've only just started taking Divination and we haven't done prophecy yet, I think that's next term.'

'No, vy did the Dark Lord try to kill you?' the boy persisted impatiently. 'Vas there a prophecy you vould defeat him?'

Come to think of it, the word 'prophecy' did ring a bell. Rita Skeeter's aborted book about Harry had been titled The Hand of Prophecy. She had never finished it, leaving a great number of hints and clues incomplete. 'Maybe?' Harry said. 'I don't really know. Is that, er, usual?'

'Oh yes,' Rolvsson said quite seriously. 'Alvays with the Dark Lords there is an Adrestreia foretold. Light Lords haff them too.'

'A what?'

'Adrestreia,' said the girl who'd been sat beside Harry at tea. Apparently introducing yourself to the lot all at the once counted as a proper introduction, at least if you were a Boy Who Lived.

'Sorry, I still don't know what that means.'

'Nemesis,' Savage told him shortly. When Harry shrugged again, Savage rolled his eyes. 'You could do with a vocabulary lesson, Potter. From the Greek. She was the goddess of Retribution. The One From Whom There Is No Escape.'

'The Speakings predict the rise of a Lord and their Adrestreia,' Rolvvson explained. 'But you do not know your own Speaking? Then how do you know the key to your final battle?'

'I--' Harry found himself at a loss. He looked helplessly at Sirius, who was doing an excellent imitation of Savage, now, his frown mightily bending his brows to a peak over his nose. 'I guess I don't know,' Harry said.

The Durmstrang students were all shaking their head in pity of his ignorance. 'Then you vill surely fail,' Rolvsson sighed, and he didn't look alone in that sentiment. All together it was rather alarming, and Harry did not like to be alarmed.

'Let's keep our tour moving,' Percy suggested in his most supercilious Head Boy voice, stepping in front of Harry. 'Now that you've seen some of the classrooms, we'll show you the dormitories where you'll be sleeping. Quick question, do we have anyone with claustrophobia or fear of heights? We'll want to be taking that into consideration for your arrangements.'

 

 

 

It was a bit strange, having Durmstrang quartered with them. Harry's dorm acquired a boy, Alfred, who spoke very little English and only questionably understood everything they told him about the ensuite, the rules for quiet hours after nine and curfew at ten, the promise of an upcoming Hogsmeade day-- he seemed to think it was the same as Hogwarts, since they both had Hog in the name, which Harry allowed was a bit confusing if you thought about it. Rolvsson and Viktor had both been placed with Gryffindor as well, but Harry didn't know much about how they were doing with the sixth and seventh year boys. Rolvsson at least didn't spend much time there before making his way back to the common room. Harry found him there surrounded by giggling Gryffindor girls. He had brought a box of chocolates with him and was sharing it around. It seemed to Harry that the boy was playing up his accent, which hadn't seemed so thick and exotic at tea. Nor could it possibly be necessary to run a hand through his hair so often, nor lean in quite so far to hear the girls repeat their names for him, which they did with bright pink cheeks and sly glances upward through their lashes.

'Harry,' Ron said, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him aside. 'That one in the corner there?'

'Viktor?' Viktor did not have any charms to play up, it seemed. He looked a bit like an overgrown goblin, with his bowed back and severely sloped brow. The odd proportions of his tall body were more obvious now he had shed his robe; he had powerfully developed shoulders and arms, and very thin legs with turned in a bit on each other so that his knees knocked and toes touched. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands and he seemed vastly grateful to be presently ignored.

'It is him!' Ron flipped hurriedly through the pages of a dog-eared magazine and thrust it in Harry's face. 'Viktor Krum! He played second-string Seeker for the Bulgarians this summer and has a perfect record. He's a miracle on a broom, they say, he's poetry in motion--'

Harry twitched a bit at this. Ron knew nothing of Muggle music and wouldn't be aware that 'Poetry in Motion' was one of Sirius's favourite records and had played on nonstop repeat whenever Sirius was having a particularly maudlin night locked alone in the library, without even Regulus allowed to interrupt him.

'Introduce me,' Ron demanded.

'Introduce yourself, he's right there.'

'I can't!'

'Why not?'

'I wouldn't know what to say to him.'

'Then what's the good of being introduced if you're not going to talk to him?'

'Some friend you are,' Ron complained, and went off in a huff to pull Ginny out of the crowd about Rolvsson.

They had a feast that night to rival any welcoming reception Hogwarts had seen in years. Well, Harry didn't, but he got roast chicken, which he happened to actually like, and by chance there were sprouts too, and so for once he ate his fill and happily enough. At least, dinner was happy til he tried to explain to his Knights what the Durmstrang students had said about prophecies.

'What did they call you?'

'Add-ess-- I don't know. I can't remember the word. Savage said it's the name of a Greek goddess of justice or something.'

'Greek?' Neville mused. 'Could it be Iustitia? Lady Justice? Or Astraea, the Celestial Virgin?'

'Harry's gonna be a celestial virgin if he doesn't get a move-on,' Fred cracked.

'Like you'd know,' Ginny retorted on Harry's behalf. 'Just this summer George dared him to kiss Tony the Cow and I bet it was his first kiss.'

'It was not,' Fred stuttered, going very red. His twin sniggered, but only til Fred rounded on him. 'You've never had a snog either-- your fist doesn't count!' He mimed smooching his own hand, and was roundly shoved by George. Only a quick intervention from Percy stopped it becoming a full brawl, and as it was McGonagall turned a watchful eye on them from the Head Table, gaze narrow and suspicious.

'I don't think it was the virgin one,' Harry told Neville more quietly, with a blush of his own. 'There was a phrase Savage used, something like "The One Who Cannot Be Escaped".'

'Oh, Adrestreia. Nemesis.'

'That's the one. They said every Dark Lord has a prophecy that foretells the final battle between them and their Nemesis.' Harry had a sip of water, checking about to be sure no-one was listening in. 'I don't want to sound ignorant, but there's more than one Dark Lord? I thought that was just what Voldemort called himself?'

'No, it's a title,' Hermione said reluctantly. 'It's never given, so far as I can tell-- and not everyone claims it who might, Grindelwald never did.'

'So does that mean Grindelwald didn't have a Nemesis?'

'Well, if you think about it, Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, so maybe he was Grindelwald's Nemesis?'

'Only if there was a prophecy,' Neville countered. 'And I never heard of such a thing. Then again, we wouldn't, would we?'

'What do you mean?' Harry wondered.

'The Department of Mysteries keeps all prophecies,' Neville shrugged. 'It's all hush-hush, innit. The Unspeakables are the only ones with access to prophecies, and they don't usually go about telling anyone.'

'Hold up, go back,' Harry said, planting his chin on his hand and wishing he didn't have to keep making more room in his head for new information. He thought he'd covered plenty about the Ministry during his summer tutoring, but he didn't recall anyone saying anything about Unspeakables. 'Why's everything in the Wizarding World have such silly names? Bother it. Who are the Unspeakables and what do they have to do with any of this?'

'The Unspeakables are older even than the Ministry of Magic,' Hermione filled him in, reaching for a tart as pudding replaced the main meal on the tables. Harry's plate removed itself, replaced by a bowl of yoghurt and sliced peaches. Vanilla. Harry shuddered, but ate it nonetheless. 'They're the ones who figured out that witches and wizards are born, not created somehow. They study things like that. Anyway the Hall of Prophecy is where they store all the records of predictions about everything. No-one is allowed to read them, not even the Minister. The only people who can retrieve a record of a prophecy are the people the prophecy is about, and of course the Keeper.' Hermione took a bite of her treacle, and added sententiously, 'Of course that's the sort of useful fact we  _ought_ to be learning in Divination.'

'So if there is a prophecy about me and Voldemort and it's got the key to our final battle, I should probably know that,' Harry said. 'So how do I get the record of it? Do I just write a letter requesting it or something? Fill out an application?'

'Oh, no,' Neville said. 'I mean, you _can physically_ retrieve it, but they don't let anyone. No-one is ever allowed into the Hall of Prophecy.'

'Well what's the good in that?'

'No-one can make the Unspeakables do anything they don't want to. It's been tried, believe me. Minister of Magic Lestrange tried to shut them down totally back in the 1840s and they just showed up to work the next day and went about their business. Nothing doing, I'm afraid.'

So that was a dead end. 'So if there is a prophecy about me, I can't ever find out what it is,' Harry concluded. 'But neither can Voldemort, at least. So I'm no worse off than I was.'

'No, but...' Ron, who'd been absorbed most of the evening with staring at Viktor Krum seated up the table with Oliver and Percy, turned his attention on Harry now, and he looked grim and sorry for it. 'But, if Tom Riddle's out there building an army,' he said very quietly between the four of them, 'and he's getting bold enough to attack big targets now, mightn't it all be practise for a full assault on the Ministry? If there's a prophecy in there with clues about a final battle, I could see why he'd think it's worth it.'

So could Harry. It didn't take much imagination. 'But why, I wonder,' Harry said.

'Why what, Har?'

'Why then aren't Dumbledore and the Order worried about it? And why didn't Voldemort care about it?'

'Voldemort already knows,' Hermione proposed, and went a little paler as the full implications followed in her quick mind. 'He must do. Because he knew to attack your parents, Harry-- you specifically. He knew you were his Nemesis.'

'But Tom Riddle doesn't know,' Neville guessed next. 'Because You Know Who-- sorry-- V-voldemort figured it out after he'd left school, which Tom hadn't yet. Only he's got Peter Pettigrew now, and you'd think Pettigrew would know, if he knew why Voldemort wanted to find out where your parents were in hiding, which he must've, mustn't he? I mean he did give up their Secret.'

It was indeed falling into place. James and Lily Potter had known they were being hunted, and so had gone into hiding late in the war. At Dumbledore's advice, they'd picked a Secret Keeper as the key to their Fidelius charm-- the spell meant to hide them from their worst enemy. But at the last moment they had switched from Sirius, their best friend, to Peter, who was less well known and likelier to hide the Secret better. Or so they'd thought. Pettigrew had already given his loyalty to Voldemort, and gave his Secret to the Dark Lord.

And Harry remembered, then. The dreams he had shared with Voldemort, when their minds had been connected his first year at Hogwarts. No, not dreams. Memories. And one of those memories had been Voldemort's battle with Lily, Harry's mother, the fatal battle in which Lily had given her life to save her son's, and Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse on Harry, only to have it rebound and destroy his earthly body. What had Voldemort said, though? Harry summoned it up behind closed eyes, that nightmare of cruelty and sinister brilliance, a man so corrupted by the Dark that he had delighted in innocent deaths. Or would have done, if he hadn't somehow convinced himself that he was free of blame, only doing what fate had made him do, a hero really in his own mind...

 _'I have freed you of their chains,'_ Voldemort had told Lily that night he had come to kill her and her family. _'Your beloved husband was unworthy of you-- untalented, uncurious, a creature of appetites and impulse and little sense. And your child is doomed-- not by my hand.  Blame the prophecy if you will, but he was marked before me. You will have others. Is that not merciful? Think of the love you have yet to give to those children.'_

'He knew,' Harry said. 'And I think I have to know, too. So why don't they want me to?'

'Harry,' Ron interrupted, and then everyone was rising. Dinner was over, and Harry had to be at his duties again. With a sigh, Harry dropped his spoon back into his yoghurt, and left his seat to gather up his Durmstrang students.

 

 

**

 

 

The arrival of the Beauxbatons students on Thursday that week was still a matter of great good cheer and intrigue, but the newness of having foreigners in the school had rather gone out of the thing and so there was a noticeable down-tick in enthusiasm. Harry hoped it wasn't evident to their guests-- it still looked impressive enough to him, and Durmstrang added their own colour to the event by showing up in full regalia to greet their sister school.

Harry had to hand it to the other schools-- they had an impressive lock on showmanship of transportation. Though he adored the Hogwarts Express, it didn't really hold a candle to a ship that could swim across continents under the water, nor to a flying carriage with a dozen winged horses at the reins. The horses-- Abraxans, Draco said, he had an uncle who bred them, or rather owned a breeding farm because Harry severely doubted anyone with a Malfoy in their name did actual work-- stood as tall as Hagrid and their palomino coats steamed in the air with the exertion of their long journey, and their enormous wings were beautiful and their long manes were braided with ribbon which he found on the whole to be a bit too girly for such muscular beasts. But no-one had asked his opinion, and anyway they were quite the most wonderful thing he'd seen since unicorns, and he had a painful moment thinking of Remus and his Care of Magical Creatures class. Remus would have liked the Abraxans, and no doubt would have had many interesting facts to tell Harry about their species and their history, in the way Remus could make even the driest subjects fascinating.

But the Beauxbatons delegation needed no aid in that department. Dozens of them descended a golden step to the scraggly grass of Hogwarts' lawn, mincing little steps as if they danced instead of walked like normal folk. Everything about them seemed a frothy concoction of light and air; their uniforms were of silk and sateen, unfortunately turning spotty as a gust of September showers began to blow through. But their capes fluttered enticingly, and their pointed shoes winked with gold tips, and even out in the open Harry noticed that they travelled in a cloud of scent that was cinnamon spice and sweet peppermint. All the girls wore their hair long, and so did the boys, so there was no distinguishing them at first glance. Each of them wore their wand in a holster at their belt, beside a small curved knife.

'Sickle,' Percy whispered when Harry asked under his breath. 'It's a Druidic tool. They used it for cutting mistletoe. And for killing their sacrifices.'

'Human sacrifices,' Aster Kennedy whispered from Harry's other side. 'It's  _too_ gory.' She said this as if it were quite the recommendation. 'I heard they have a secret ritual at Beauxbatons-- they call it the Reaping.'

'Why would they call it something English if they don't speak English?'

Kennedy gave Harry a cross glance. 'Fine, maybe they call it the Reaping in French.'

'What's the ritual meant to be?' Percy wondered uneasily.

'Well,' Kennedy said with relish, 'I heard the girls all do the girls, and the boys all do the boys, the first full moon of their fifth year. They dress all in white and walk barefoot to a sacred grove hidden in the hills-- a Druid grove-- and they dance under the moon and then they all remove all that pretty white clothing and...' She trailed off suggestively.

'They do not,' Percy retorted, scandalised. 'Potter, don't listen to her, she doesn't know what she's talking about.'

'Don't listen to Weasley, he's a prude.' Kennedy smiled brightly at a Beauxbatons boy-- or girl-- who passed near on their way up the lawn toward the castle. 'There are places in the world where they still practise sex magic, you know.'

'Sex magic!' Percy yelped, strangled. 'Potter, cover your ears.'

'You mean, sex like... sex,' Harry said, finding himself blushing alongside Percy.

'Not just that,' Kennedy allowed. 'Sex like being a boy or a girl. Or a certain kind of boy or girl,' she added archly, with a sidelong look at Percy that made him even redder. 'They don't teach it anywhere anymore, but they did once. There's a lot of magical power in innocence. Or in not being so innocent anymore.'

'I think that's McGonagall calling us in,' Harry said hastily, and took off at a good clip.

Tea with Beauxbatons went about as well as it had with Durmstrang. Harry thought himself better clued in, after that first experience, and didn't try to talk to the girls other than what was necessary to be polite. But he got it wrong. It was the boys who didn't seem to want to talk, this time, speaking French over his head, which was not hard to do as Harry was by far the smallest at the table. The first kind word he had was from the only one younger than Harry himself, a slender girl who introduced herself as Gabrielle, the younger sister of one of the competitors, Fleur Delacour. Gabrielle pointed her out for Harry-- she was a creature of spun glass, or so it seemed to Harry, who had never seen anyone as lovely. Her hair was like gold candy floss, her nose aquiline and just slightly too long for her oval face, but she also had a long lovely neck, and long lovely fingers, and even that slight flaw only made her all the lovelier.

'You will love her,' Gabrielle said sadly in her accented English. 'Everyone does.'

Harry blinked out of a slight daze he hadn't even realised he'd fallen into. 'Uh,' he said intelligently, and bought time to gather his thoughts with a quick swallow of tea. 'I don't know about love. I reckon I'm better off over here, and her over there.'

Gabrielle seemed somewhat taken aback by this. 'You don't want to speak to her? To follow her, to marry her?'

'Marry!' Harry coughed on a mouthful of tea. 'I definitely don't want to marry her.'

'Everyone wants to marry her. Every boy at school has proposed at least once. Sabastien has proposed every week since he met her.'

'Does she like that?' Harry asked dubiously.

'Oui, she says it shows good discipline.'

Aster Kennedy caught his eye from the other side of the U-bend in the table. She pursed her lips at him in an exaggerated kissy face.

'Oh,' Harry said, reddening again. 'Well, I don't want to be married, and not to your sister, or to you,' he clarified, just in case, 'so we're all safe then.'

'Truly?' Gabrielle brightened considerably. 'But that is wonderful! Then perhaps we shall be friends?'

'Er, yeah, all right?'

She beamed at him. And finished her quiche with good appetite. Harry had none left, however, and spent the rest of tea wishing very strongly he had done the sensible thing and shouted down this TWAT business the moment Dumbledore had thought of it.

The tour at least was incident free-- Umbridge did her act on repeat, but Sirius had learnt from Harry's displeasure at his first performance and made himself conspicuously absent from temptation. They visited Snape's Potions lab instead, which the Beauxbatons students seemed to find distasteful; Harry had learnt enough French at the summer to tell people how to find things, when to go to things, and what to do when they got there, but not enough French to understand what he was fairly sure were insults and complaints. It was true the dungeons were on the dank side, and dim besides and not too pleasant smelling, what with all the things brewed down there for generations. But Harry found himself disgruntled on Snape's behalf. None of that was his fault. And the thing that was his fault, that more than a few of the Beauxbatons students seemed to be whispering about, was something Harry considered closed and best forgot. The fourth time he saw someone touch their forearm and draw a figure eight in imitation of the Dark Mark Snape had once worn, Harry decided he'd had enough.

'Luna,' he whispered, catching her attention where she sat two rows from the back, at her own table without any lab partners. She reminded him of Hermione, in the early days, stranded alone with her notebooks. Luna's workstation was a riot of scattered ingredients, instruments used and discarded, and what appeared to be a sandwich half eaten and awaiting further attention on a bit of spare parchment.

'Hullo, Harry,' Luna replied at volume, smiling as if surprised to find him there. Then she seemed to notice all the other students standing about, and said, 'Oh, my. How unexpected.'

'It's the opposite of unexpected, Luna, it's extremely expected,' Harry said, exasperated. But not by her. 'Sorry. Look, I'd appreciate a distraction. Do you mind?'

'Not at all,' she said courteously. 'Distract away. I already know how to make this stomach soother anyway-- I make it for me dad all the time. He's always very worried about the state of the world, you know. Being in the news business, he's exposed to a great deal of anxiety.'

'Your dad is in the news? Not the  _Prophet_?' Harry asked warily, distracted himself.

'Oh, no. The _Daily_   _Prophet_ is a horrible miscarriage of journalistic standards,' Luna assured him. 'Dad's the owner and publisher of  _The Quibbler_.'

'Hold up, I know  _The Quibbler_. My Grandda reads it sometimes. He says--' Harry recalled too late what Lyall said about  _The Quibbler_ , which was that it was three parts delusion, one part hoax, and one part wish for a better world. But he also said that  _The Quibbler_ found truths where the  _Prophet_ didn't even go looking, and so it was worth fishing through the detritus to find the gold. 'He says it's good,' Harry finished lamely.

'I've been advertising for new subscriptions,' Luna said. 'We've had very little inroads to new demographics. I'd like to expand our readership, but so far no-one's responded to any of my advertisements.' She dug in her much-patched rucksack and found a parchment to show him. It was a hand-drawn poster of two poorly formed people who appeared to be shouting 'XXX!' at each other.

'Er,' said Harry, 'what's it advertising, exactly?'

'Quibbling,' Luna said, as if it were obvious. It was not, Harry thought. It was very much not.

'Maybe,' he suggested delicately, 'if you put the name of the paper on it? And also information about how to get a subscription?'

'I didn't want to take all the imagination from it,' Luna mused. 'I suppose I can try it your way. Seems a bit lacking in mystery, though.'

'It does, a bit, but that might be better for sales purposes.' A snigger from the Beauxbatons group reminded Harry what he was about. 'Do you mind if I ruin your potion? I'll tell Snape I did it later so he won't blame you.'

'All right.'

Harry selected a scarab from the mess on her tabletop. 'You don't want to know why I'm doing it?'

'I've just told you I prefer the mystery,' she said, and smiled at him. Harry couldn't help it. He smiled back.

'Hold your nose,' he told her, and dropped the scarab whole into her boiling cauldron.

The resultant disturbance was exactly what Harry wanted. Pitchy smoke spewed liberally from Luna's cauldron, spreading a noisome stench almost as bad as the eerie whistling the emitted from the source. Harry moved Luna when Luna did not initially attempt to save herself, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her to the safety of the special ingredients cupboard. 'Chew this,' he advised, fishing out a bit of willowbark from its glass container. 'It will help with the eye itching.'

'Mr Potter.' Snape appeared at the door, glaring and red-eyed. He'd clearly walked through the smoke. 'What in Merlin's beknighted name are you up to?'

Harry poked his head out beyond Snape's arm to see that the Beauxbatons delegation had made themselves scarce right quick. He could hear them in the hall, making a lot of ruckus. But all about the disastrous potion, and not at all about Snape and his past.

'I'm speaking to you, boy!'

'And I hear you just fine, you don't need to holler at me.'

Snape's brows went slamming together. 'Don't you dare back-talk me, Potter.'

'I still care about you, even if you don't care about me,' Harry told him flatly, and pushed past him. 'Thanks, Luna,' he tossed back hurriedly, and left before Snape could finish gaping at him.

 

 

 

Ginny found him in the common room just before curfew. Most students had drifted to bed some forty minutes ago, when their new guests had been forcibly sent to bed by their Headmaster and Headmistress, who had made the rounds to see their wards properly taken care of. Madam Maxime, an exceedingly tall witch, had proclaimed the Gryffindor common room 'quaint' and given her girls in particular a stern lecture in French. Hermione, who spoke excellent French thanks to twelve years of summers in the Auvergne, confirmed it was mainly instructions not to get into trouble, and most especially not to get into trouble with boys. No-one was to leave their bed til six o'clock in the morning, at which point Madam Maxime would return to fetch her students for morning calisthenics. Durmstrang, so Viktor informed Harry, were up an hour earlier than that every day for their own exercises-- dawn runs around the castle in their skivvies, no matter how cold it was, followed by a long sweat in the sauna and then a plunge into the freezing lake.

'Every morning?' Harry gawped. 'That sounds horrible.'

'Yes,' said Viktor. 'Perhaps you like to join us?'

Harry did not like. Harry was quite certain he could not in any way be induced to like it. Nonetheless, he would be doing it. Viktor had asked, and Harry was under orders to make friends and allies. If he didn't join in, he was sure Viktor would think him a coward and a wet blanket besides. So he had agreed, pretending cheerfulness, not mortal dread.

'Aren't you sleepy?' Ginny asked him now, tucking onto the sofa beside him.

'Wish I was, but no,' Harry answered. He rolled his head on his cushion to look at her. Ginny had braided her long ginger hair neatly and wore a pink housecoat with white lace butterflies sewn all over it. 'Your slippers don't match,' he pointed out. 'Rabbits.'

'Says you,' Ginny retorted, giving him a little shove. 'You never match.'

'What's wrong with my clothes?'

'You dress like you're colour-blind as well as regular blind.'

'Oi,' he said, pretending to be offended, but where she might have squeaked at him and fled in times past, now she only laughed, so he did too. 'Honestly, though, Sirius picked out most of my clothes. I thought it was a Pureblood sort of thing? Ron always... well, Ron looks like Ron.'

'Percy's the only one who dresses all right, and... well, Percy,' Ginny said.

'I dunno, I like his bowties.'

'I could see you in a bowtie. Brush your hair down.' She reached across the sofa to brush her fingers through his fringe. 'You really try to hide the scar, don't you?'

He stopped himself turning his face away only because she'd called him out at it. 'I don't like it,' he said.

'It's part of you.'

'It's not. He did it.'

'And you survived it.'

'I get tired of doing that.'

'I don't get tired of you doing it.'

Harry opened his mouth, and couldn't think of anything to say. 'Er,' he managed.

Ginny's cheeks darkened. 'Sorry,' she apologised, snatching her hand back and retreating behind the shield of a pillow. 'I'm used to fighting with my brothers. Usually I can out-talk them.'

'Is it nice, having brothers?'

'Honestly?' Ginny picked at a thread coming loose at her hem. 'Most of the time they're either ignoring me because I'm too little or because I'm a girl, which is worse. And they're noisy and dirty and they'd do anything to get out of their chores and they're always fighting with each other and they're really, really bad at sharing the loo. But... they're also pretty wonderful. Ron's always protected me. And the twins love Percy so much, they were really upset when everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin. And Charlie thinks he's the black sheep but he always steps up when it matters. And Bill...'

Harry took her hand, gently freeing the thread that had wrapped her finger so tight it was purpling. 'I'm really sorry about Bill.'

'I know you are. And I know you feel guilty. You shouldn't.'

'Shouldn't I?'

'No,' she said firmly. 'Tom Riddle wasn't your fault. He wasn't Percy's fault. He's only his own fault, and he's the only one responsible for what happened to Bill. Anyway. Having brothers is mostly irritating, and sometimes really wonderful, and... and you know we think of you as a brother, right? So you can think of us as your brothers and sister. So you tell me, what's it like?'

'It's... good,' Harry said. 'I think it's pretty good. But do you think Charlie will mind if I'm the bad sheep?'

'Please, Harry. Fred and George are obviously the bad sheep.'

He laughed. And then yawned so widely his jaw cracked. 'Sorry.'

'Go to bed.'

'Yes, sis. I'll just finish this chapter.' He lifted the book in his lap. 'You go on, though. And save me a really hot pumpkin juice at breakfast? I'm going to need it after running and sauna-ing and plunging into the Black Lake in--' He checked the clock above the fireplace, and winced. 'Six hours.'

'Will do.' Ginny stood, her fuzzy rabbit slippers shuffling on the rug. 'You're all right, Harry?'

'For the moment. Which is pretty good, all things considered. Thanks, Ginny.'

She smiled. 'Sleep well, Harry.'

When she had gone, Harry did a full turn about the common room, checking the corners and making sure he was alone. But it looked safe enough. And he wouldn't cross himself, because he'd been too busy doing other things all evening to come down to the common room, so as long as he wore his invisibility cloak and sat somewhere no-one might accidentally sit on him, he should be able to get in a few hours of reading. He climbed atop a table in his stockinged feet, climbed from there onto the dusty top of the solid old trophy cabinet, and pulled the cloak over his head. When he was situated, he pulled the time turner from about his neck, and gave it two careful turns.

It was like listening to a tape rewinding, all high-pitched voices and babbling in reverse, and through the weave of his cloak he could see shadows hustling hither and yon at speed. Then all slowed again, and the fire flared high and the clock turned back, and it was only eight o'clock. And there Harry of eight o'clock went, up the stairs, leading the Beauxbatons boys in to see if the elves had delivered all their baggage correctly. Harry watched himself go, and settled back against the chilly stone wall to open the book in his lap.

'The Ministry of Magic: Unspeakable Unhistory, Chapter One,' he muttered, and turned to the first page with determination.


	8. How To Find Your Ideal Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Good Company Is Hard To Find._

'It feels a little hinky,' Harry said dubiously.

'It won't be exactly what you're used to,' McGonagall told him, not entirely patiently. She had been tolerant of him dismissing the first four wands for not liking how they felt in his hand, for thinking they were too long or too short or, in the case of the third, for giving him a weird itchy feeling like hives all over his body, but her tolerance was now wearing thin. 'Give it a try, Mr Potter.'

'If he doesn't like it, it won't like him,' Sirius disagreed. 'It's got to be the right wand or he'll keep having-- issues.'

'We are concerned Mr Potter may, in fact, be left-handed,' McGonagall confided to Ollivander. 'And that it may be affecting his wand compatibility.'

The old wandmaker, Ollivander, stood peering at Harry from beneath impressively bushy eyebrows, tapping a wizened finger to his lip. 'Compatibility is a complex matter,' he mused in his raspy voice. Harry was not altogether certain about this Ollivander, who had prattled on a length about the indelible relationship between wand and wielder until told by an exasperated McGonagall that Harry was quite old enough not to need the full rigmarole. Harry wouldn't have minded, himself, finding it a curious experience; like much of the Wizarding World, it seemed a combination of tradition and play-acting that had long since taken over the initial necessity. Harry did not doubt there was a great deal involved in wandcraft, and certainly Ollivander seemed a knowledgeable fellow when it came to the woods and various magical cores. And Harry found something lovely in the craftsmanship, had stood only turning half an ear to Ollivander's speechifying and Sirius and McGonagall's bickering as he examined a rack of work-in-progress wands in Ollivander's small workshop in the back of the store. Every wand was carved by hand, using the natural grooves and grain of the wood. Some were quite intricate, quite delicate. He'd have liked to know more about how Ollivander got the cores on the inside, as the wands all seemed to be made of a single piece, not two pieces glued together. Maybe a pinpoint opening at the top and he just stuffed the cores down it? But no matter how closely Harry looked at a wand he couldn't figure it out.

'Chestnut with a core of unicorn tail,' Ollivander interjected now. 'Twelve inches-- quite average, Mr Potter-- prone to breaking before bending. Perhaps a simple charm, such as a--'

' _Lumos_ ,' Harry said, giving the wand a flabby flick with his less familiar left hand. It flew right out of his grip, zinging off into the maze of shelves in the store. No-one could see it land, but they all heard the tumble of boxes and the resounding thwack of the wand spearing point-first into the wall. The vibration echoed for a full minute after.

'Take off the sword,' Sirius suggested.

The sword rather decided when Harry did or did not take it off, but Harry complied with a shrug. He slid the harness off his shoulders and propped the sword in its tall sheath against Ollivander's chair.

'Olive wood, dragon heartstring, thirteen and a half inches, reasonably springy, especially in warm weather,' Ollivander tried next, lifting a wand from its nest of tissue paper and handing it to Harry. But this time McGonagall stopped him.

'Let's try a more complex magic,' she said. 'Left or right hand is one thing, but you need a wand which assists you in your weaker areas no matter the ultimate decision there. Let's try  _Fera Verto_.'

Harry stifled a groan. He had failed that spell in his second year. He had yet to perform it successfully. He followed McGonagall's lead, however, guiding his wand in a careful circle and swish that ended with a gentle bop to Ollivander's pet bat hanging sleeping from its perch. The bat sneezed and shuffled a few steps along its perch, but didn't transfigure into anything un-bat-like.

'Fir, moderately strong for a softwood, core of dragon heartstring,' Ollivander offered the next one.

This time the bat flung itself off its perch, chittering angrily at being disturbed in the daytime, and latched itself firmly to Ollivander's ascot. Ollivander soothed it with a gentle stroke to the spine, and returned the fir wand to its box.

'Cherry sapwood, unicorn hair, very prone to attaching to its first owner.'

'Hard maple, noted for its resistance, dragon heartstring, a flamboyant wand.'

'Walnut, unicorn hair, ten inches... no, I see very much not the right wand for you.'

'Japanese _torreya,_ that is, a nutmeg-yew, one of a small batch I made from a sample sent me by a South Korean monk, an unusual choice for an unusual wizard, perhaps?' Followed by a deep sigh. 'No, I see not.'

'Black alder, known to thrive in poor soil. It provides food and shelter to any number of insects and lichens, a support for other trees which grow better once it has gone before to make way. And one of my few wands made without a Supreme Core; I couldn't tell you now what possessed me to use a lesser core, but I found myself drawn to fairy wing for this wand, a rather whimsical choice...'

Harry gave it an experimental shake. 'Not bad,' he allowed, liking, too, how it felt in his hand, even on the left. There was a curious lightness to it, a lack of weight balanced by the longer handle. He fingered it slowly, getting a sense of it, and shifted his grip to hold the shaft between his pointer and third fingers, fourth and small finger only negligently curled about it. 'Maybe,' he said.

'No immediate disaster,' Sirius cracked, but his mouth was screwed to the side as if he chewed at the inside of his cheek, and his eyes were wary.

'Most unusual,' McGonagall frowned. 'Potter, that's not how you were trained to hold a wand.'

Harry wasn't at all sure he'd ever been trained in that, but admitted he'd never done it before nor seen anyone else do it. But it felt right. He gave the wand a gentle swish, and light filled the workshop. At Harry's gesture, it put itself out, leaving a sweet dim behind.

'I like it,' Harry approved.

'Now with the sword,' Ollivander suggested.

Harry settled for merely wrapping a hand about the hilt. ' _Fera Verto,_ ' he said, aiming for the bat burrowed into Ollivander's ascot.

'Reverse it!' Sirius and McGonagall scrambled for their wands as Ollivander disappeared altogether. The bat winged off with a screech, flapping madly to shelter out in the main shop. The water goblet that had been Britain's foremost wand maker wobbled and fell over, then re-formed into a man sprawled on the dusty floor amidst the curls of woodshavings, blinking wide in disorientation.

'Not an everyday occurrence, to be sure,' Ollivander mused, as Sirius helped him upright.

'I'm so sorry,' Harry tried to apologise, rather aghast. 'Bad sword,' he scolded it, 'very very bad,' and that was when Sirius lost it, dissolving into helpless giggles. McGonagall scowled at him, at first, but soon even her lips were twitching. Ollivander only wandered off into his shop muttering to himself.

'What if there's no wand that's right for me now?' Harry dared to ask. 'Can I just keep using the sword?'

'I suppose you'll have to,' McGonagall sighed. 'Though I don't know how the rest of us will manage to adjust. Nearly all of the curriculum at Hogwarts is based around wand magic. It seems rather pointless to put you through classes you could not participate in properly, not to mention disruptive to your fellow students. I suppose we'd have to consider private tutoring.'

'What, on top of classes?' The bottom near fell out of Harry's stomach at that. 'There's not enough time!'

'No, there isn't,' McGonagall agreed. 'I meant private tutoring in place of your Hogwarts education. Although you're rather too young for an apprenticeship, not to mention there's no wandless masters I know of to take on your training.'

'Not everyone stays at Hogwarts for the full seven,' Sirius said. 'It used to be quite common for Purebloods especially to leave before their sixth or seventh year and complete their training through a tutor.'

'Generations ago.'

'Well, Harry's special, isn't he?'

'Special's not really the word for it,' Harry groused, giving the alder wand a twirl in his fingers. 'I want to stay at Hogwarts. All my friends are there. And I have to stay at least for the Tournament.'

McGonagall opened her mouth to contest that, but didn't. She looked troubled as she retreated to the window, gazing out at the passersby of Diagon Alley. She didn't ever answer.

'Maybe we should just keep doing like before,' Harry implored Sirius. 'Just get a bunch of wands and use them til they go off.'

'Wands aren't meant to go off like an apple left too long in the bowl,' Sirius replied. 'And they're not meant to do what the last one did to you.' That was straying too close to disputed territory. Harry would not look at Sirius to see what was meant by that comment, and after a moment of awkward silence Sirius went on anyway. 'It's not a long-term solution. You can be a wizard without a wand, but it's no easy road. We must at least try.'

'I like this one.'

'But is it the right one?'

'How should I know?' he retorted crossly.

'You knew with Lily's wand. Remus told me.'

Unwillingly Harry remembered how that had felt. Like a dream come true. Like the moment magic had become real for him. Like the moment he'd known who his parents were, because he'd felt them there with him, their love and their hopes for him made real with his mum's wand. The alder wand was nice, but it wasn't like Lily's wand.

'That wand had a Horcrux in it,' Harry said. 'And so did I, then. Maybe that's what I was feeling, and I only thought it was everything else. Like... like calling to like.'

'That was just a--' Sirius wet his lips. 'That was just a thing he did to you. A-- a remnant. Not you. Albus said. You transmuted it.'

'Dumbledore said,' Harry repeated.

'Just the thing, just the thing,' Ollivander announced his return, carrying with him a whole new armful of boxes. 'I see now, I see the shape of the thing now, I believe. The Sword of Gryffindor is an ancient magic, and requires a companion in kind. Not for you a modern wand, no, Mr Potter, not for you.' Ollivander set his burden on the worktable, opening box after box. Harry, looking over his shoulder, saw these boxes looked quite old, their corners dented and the gilt lettering faded. The wands inside looked rather different, too, from the many he'd tried before. They were longer, for one thing, two or even three feet in length, one nearly as long as the sword. And unlike modern wands these had jewels and charms bound with gold or silver wire to the handle. One had a crystal positioned as if it were growing out of the shaft, another was crusted with greyish pearls, another with overlapped scales that reminded Harry of the basilisk he'd seen last Christmas in the Chamber of Secrets. One of the wands didn't even look to be made of wood, but of bleached bone, carved all up and down its length with runes that nearly obscured the material, except for the thick knuckles at the handle proclaiming it unavoidably made of something that had once been living.

'But I know what that is,' Harry said, surprised, and before he thought twice of it he was reaching into the box Ollivander was opening. 'It's a phoenix feather.'

'Just so, Mr Potter.' Ollivander had a cagey look on his face, but Harry was only barely aware of him. The wand he took to hand was a strange thing, near three feet long, curved and knotted like driftwood, but curiously smoothed, even silken feeling.  Beads and little carved figurines of stone clacked as he lifted the wand, but it was the feather bound to the handle with a tangled skein of red thread that drew his attention. A single glorious phoenix feather, a tail feather it must be, given the long tapering point that curled familiarly about his fingers. 'It looks like Fawkes's colouring,' he said.

'Intriguing. It is indeed from a phoenix called Fawkes.'

'My Fawkes? I didn't know he'd ever given a feather for a wand.'

'Once every century-- or so. He has not given a feather since 1918, the day Muggles call Victory Day. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of that year, when the Great War came to an end.'

Harry looked up to find Ollivander's dark eyes locked on his. 'There's always a war,' he said.

'So there is, young sir. So there is.'

'How old is that thing?' Sirius asked, venturing near enough to see. 'What's it made of?'

'Hazel. You know, of course, the old adage; rowan gossips, chestnut drones, ash is stubborn, and hazel groans. There is always a nugget of truth in these things. Have you learnt anything of hazel in Herbology, Mr Potter?'

'Ummm, Professor Sprout calls hazel the wild child of the garden. The male flowers are catkins, the female are filberts... er, filberts are good for healing potions.'

'Yes, that is true. But what else? What of hazel's nature, Mr Potter?'

'Its nature?' But bidden by Ollivander's query, the answer came to mind. Harry hadn't learnt it in Herbology, but in Charms, when Remus and Flitwick had taught his class about-- 'Snakes,' Harry said. 'Hazel wood is protection from snakes.'

'Indeed,' Ollivander nodded along. 'The ancients used branches of the hazel tree to ward themselves against serpentkind. The Druids held the tree sacred. The Greeks wove coronets of its twigs and the Irish hedgewitches drank tinctures of hazelnut to see Beyond the Veil. A wand of hazel is sensitive, it reflects its owner’s emotional state-- and thus, as you might imagine, develops its discipline alongside its wielder, who must command his own agony and ecstasy, so to speak, to achieve true mastery of his magic. This wand, like your sword, I suspect, is a sympathetic magic: should you lose your temper, it will absorb and discharge your temper as magical energy. Should you grieve, it will grieve as deeply. Should you love, it will magnify your love with all its might. And should you die, it dies with you, never tolerant of another owner. Or so it would, if not for the phoenix feather. The phoenix is immortal, as you must know, Mr Potter. An immortal being connected to a wand that lives only to love. That is a powerful, powerful thing.'

'Try it, Harry,' McGonagall urged softly from the window.

Harry shifted the wand to hold it properly. A largeish knob of wood fit naturally to his palm, his forefinger resting along the twist that bent the wand in a long curve. It took a moment to figure out aim with something bendy like that; he raised his arm higher than normal, above his head, so the point levelled out at his eyeline.

And he didn't know what possessed him, but he knew what to do. He put his other hand out, and wrapped it about the hilt of the sword.

' _Reparo,_ ' Harry said, but it wasn't quite what he meant. He didn't know if there was a spell that would do what he wanted, but he did know what he wanted, and his magic pulsed down the length of the wand, through the blade of the sword, and it worked. All the half-finished wands on Ollivander's worktable burst in a flurry of woodchips, and, when the dust settled, they were perfectly carved, polished even, gleaming in the glow of Ollivander's lamp.

 

 

**

 

 

'I say ask Dobby,' Sirius volunteered his opinion. He mimed reaching back over his shoulder, drawing a weapon. 'He can sew as fine as any professional I've seen. Anyway holstering the sword and the wand together makes a decent amount of sense. Won't be knocking about with a banging great wand hanging from your belt.'

'It's not traditional,' McGonagall complained, but with the air of a woman who only said it because she felt someone must, not a woman who thought it would make any difference. 'But what about this is,' she sighed then.

'I think it's brilliant.'

'Oh, you would, Black.'

'Potter.' Sirius grinned at Harry, but it faded the longer he looked at his adopted son. 'I trust there'll be no more incidents,' he said then. 'No more hurting yourself, right? There's too many of us would be heartbroken if you did.'

Harry set his jaw. They were walking the path from the gates to Hogwarts, and it was a fine day, a good day, he very much liked his new wand and the several he'd made by magic at the end, which Ollivander had sent him home with free of charge since he couldn't properly sell them as Ollivander wands, and no-one was quite sure if they would work for anyone but Harry now anyway. He did not want to end this day on a sour note. So he said nothing. And Sirius said nothing else, either, but the skip went out of his step, and it was a long uncomfortable silence accompanying them the rest of their journey.

They mounted the steps to the Great Doors and let themselves in, and Harry looked to make himself scarce with alacrity. 'Thanks for taking me to Diagon Alley,' he told Sirius and his professor, and began to edge toward the stairs. 'I'll practise all weekend with my wand.'

'It was my pleasure, Potter,' McGonagall assured him. 'It's been a long time since I had my own wand from Ollivander's. I quite enjoyed revisiting that experience-- with your own unique twists.'

'Maybe you'd like to stay for tea?' Sirius tried, but Harry had already turned his back. Though it tore at him to do it, he made himself keep walking, pretending he hadn't heard. He made a good clatter heading up the stairs, and hurtled round the corner--

Smack into Umbridge. 'Watch where you're going, young man!' she snapped, bouncing off a statue and patting at her misaligned curls. 'You have no business running in these halls-- Potter.'

'Sorry, Professor,' Harry tried, but knew at once it was only going to be the worst for him. Umbridge did not lightly let go an offence against her, and she'd most certainly find his unwitting physical assault offencive.

Her beady eyes narrowed as she gazed at him. 'What on earth is that you're carrying, Mr Potter?' she asked in her sweetest voice. It sent goosepimples up his nape and arms.

Harry swallowed. 'My new wand, Professor.'

Her cruel smile only grew. 'That is a lie, Mr Potter,' she said, almost tenderly. 'That is like no wand I've ever seen.'

'But it is! I've just been to Ollivander's with my guardian and Professor McGonagall, you could ask any of them--'

'Why would I bother those important people with an inquiry of such little consequence? You are playing games, Mr Potter, and I do not like it when children play games without permission. Give me that stick.'

'No!' He knew it was the wrong tactic the moment it was out of his mouth, but if he gave her his new wand he'd never see it again, he knew it. It was just like his first year, when Snape had seized his wand from him in Potions class under the pretext of checking it for Dark magic. Well, Snape hadn't been wrong, exactly, but that had been only about punishing Harry, and so was this. 'No, ma'am,' Harry amended hastily. 'Only I've just got it and Ollivander said I need to spend time bonding with it. No-one else should use it yet but me.'

'I do not plan to use it, Mr Potter. I plan to remove it from the premises to the rubbish heap, where sticks belong.'

'You only have to owl Ollivander to prove--'

'I need prove nothing,' she said, and there was a gleam of triumph in her eyes, greedy for the chance to finally do him a lasting harm. 'Give it over now or I shall have you in detention, young man, for disobedience, running in the halls, and lying... a tally of wrongdoing we will be several hours remedying, if you don't know what's good for you.'

'No,' Harry said again helplessly, inching back out of her reach, his wand clutched hard in a sweating hand.

He jumped near a mile when he backed up into someone else. 'Oh, goodness, hullo there, lad,' said a half-familiar voice, and Harry turned eagerly toward rescue before he realised he had heard that voice before. A man in a pinstriped robe with a greying toothbrush moustache gave Harry a smile, a very normal and friendly smile compared to Umbridge's malicious grins. 'I only meant to get your attention in the regular way, but I reckon this will do. How are you, my boy? I haven't caught you at a bad time?'

'No, er, no sir.' Harry's heartbeat returned to normal. 'I'm just back from Ollivander's,' he said, thrusting out his wand. 'Isn't it interesting? Ollivander said it's very old and unusual.'

The man-- Harry cast about trying to remember his name, and came up with Crouching or Couch or something like, who'd once been in charge of the Aurors-- gave Harry a raised brow, but admired the wand all the same. 'Most unusual, I'd say,' he commented, lifting one of the stone carvings on its string to examine with a little round lense that he propped to his eye. 'Dolores, isn't it?' he asked Umbridge then, peering up at her and doffing his bowler hat. 'We met at last year's Ministry Christmas do, I believe.'

'So flattered you recall, Mr Crouch,' Umbridge said. Harry peered at her, wondering what was wrong with her face til it occurred to him she was--  _blushing_. Harry wrinkled his nose. 'We had such a pleasant conversation that night,' she simpered.

'Indeed I do recall.' Crouch bowed elegantly. 'Perhaps we might have a pleasant conversation again some time-- soon, I hope. Potter, if you're not needed elsewhere, perhaps I might bend your ear for an hour over tea? I believe I promised you stories about your dear mother.'

'Yes,' Harry said, grasping this offered escape with both hands. 'Yes, that would be lovely. Er-- fine. Er-- thanks.'

'Albus has been kind enough to empty out an office for my use whilst I'm here overseeing the Tournament. If you don't mind the mess, we can pass the time there, it's just up this corridor. Dolores,' Mr Crouch excused them to Umbridge.

Umbridge blushed again. It made her look choleric. 'Mr Crouch.'

'Barty, please.'

'Barty.' She flustered a bit with her pink-tinted curls, patting them into place coquettishly. 'Good evening, then.'

'Good evening.' Crouch guided Harry away with a hand to his shoulder. Harry tripped along as fast as could be done without outpacing Crouch too far, but he was beyond relief when they turned a corner and Umbridge was safely behind them. Crouch gave him a little clap and released him, only to show Harry to a door that stood half open. It was a large enough office, with a slightly musty smell as if it had only just been aired out. Fresh flowers stood in a vase at the window, and everything was well-dusted, but being so empty it made it all the more apparent it hadn't been used in some time. Crouch did have boxes, but only two, and smallish.

'Chair,' Crouch offered, waving Harry to one of the two sat at a bare desk. 'Let's see, what's the name of that house elf Albus told me to use-- Jiffy?'

Jiffy appeared with a soft puff of air, his ears perking up as he recognised Harry-- Harry generally got on with elves. But Jiffy correctly identified Crouch as his summoner, and took Crouch's order for a tea pot and sandwiches with great concentration. He was back only moments later, laying out a pewter tea service on the desk and serving both Harry and Crouch plates from a tea tray stacked four tiers high with quartered sandwiches, macaroons, and tarts. Harry stuffed himself quickly, and took a second plate as soon as Jiffy offered it.

'Slow down, my boy, you'll be too full for your supper,' Crouch said.

'Supper's not much good, sir,' Harry answered without thinking.

'Not much good? I recall the food at Hogwarts to be quite good, in my day at least.'

'Oh-- it is,' Harry assured Crouch-- Crouch only partially, and the rest to Jiffy, who looked horrified and despairing that the elves, who were after all responsible for the daily meals, might be failing in their mission. 'It's quite wonderful. Only I don't get to eat it anymore.'

'Don't get to eat it anymore?'

Harry stammered in his embarrassment. He hadn't mean to broach this subject at all. 'I'm... I've been put on a special meal plan. By Professor Umbridge.'

Crouch guffawed over his tea. 'Special meal plan? Umbridge?'

'Er... a healthy meal plan, yes, sir.'

'I have no doubt,' Crouch said in withering tones. He filled a cup of tea and added several sugars, pushing it across the desk to Harry. 'Dolores Umbridge is a boor and a half-wit. What'd you do to get on her bad side, Potter?'

That Crouch understood was a weight off Harry's shoulders. Sheer relief loosened his tongue. 'Just existing, I expect,' he confessed, and seized his tea to drink. 'She's been after me since last year, when she started teaching here.'

'There's a certain kind of person who only knows joy when inflicting misery on others. But let's apply both our heads to the problem of Doroles Umbridge, and see what we can do for you.' Crouch sat back sipping his tea, a half-eaten whitefish sandwich in his hand. 'You're competing in the Tournament, then?'

'At least in the beginning, sir, I doubt I'll make it very far.'

'Never say never. Your mother and father both were dab hands with a wand. Everything I've heard of you-- well,' he laughed, 'everything I've heard of you is that the wand is the least of your problems. The Sword of Gryffindor! You know there was a strong discussion in the Wizengamot, whether to demand you return it. It's technically property of the government; most Founders relics are.'

'Oh. I didn't know that. Only it was sort of given to me...'

'Don't worry at it, the vote went in your favour. Well, the compromise did, at any rate. Albus never mentioned it?'

'No-- compromise?'

'It was Albus's proposal. He would leave the Wizengamot in exchange for a promise not to pursue repossessing the Sword of Gryffindor. The man is quite attached to you, you know. He was very passionate you should not be made a pawn of politics, gave many a speech on your special destiny.' Crouch sipped his tea. 'Friend or foe, everyone seems to find you special, Potter.'

'You have no idea,' Harry said glumly.

Crouch gave a little chuckle at this. 'Well, I may not be able to stop her in her tracks, but let us see how we might divert Umbridge off your scent. For now, how's about I call for supper instead of just sandwiches? We can do you a good meal tonight, and we'll take the rest as they come. Jiffy? Ah, good elf. Let's have us a Sunday roast a day early, shall we? And don't skimp on the roast potatoes, I can put away a bushel all on my own, no mentioning Potter's got a young man's appetite. And, I think, snowballs for pudding-- have you ever had a snowball, Potter? My mother used to make them for her parties. Legendary parties, you know. Hundreds would pack into our townhouse, it'd be hot as hell with all the bodies packed in, but our elf, Winky, would bring out the snowballs stacked four high on trays and everyone would break into dance. Christmas through New Year, there'd be a party nearly every night, and dancing, and those snowballs...' Crouch seemed lost in thought, a small smile turning bitter on his lips. 'Well,' he said abruptly. 'That was a long time ago. But you'll like the snowballs all the same. Small one for you, Potter, they pack a kick.'

'I don't think I know what a snowball is, sir.'

'Brandy, eggs, and lemonade, and no making faces, son, you'll adore it.' Crouch gave the edge of his desk a light slap. 'Now, let's have ourselves a story on exchange. You tell me about that fascinating new wand of yours, and I'll tell you a tale of derring-do from your mother's unsung triumphs as an Auror.'

Harry smiled. 'I'd like that, sir. And thank you.'

'My great pleasure, Potter. My pleasure entirely.'

 

 

**

 

 

'But you can make a wand of anything,' Rolvsson was saying to his nightly audience of adoring Gryffindor girls, and not a few Hufflepuffs who managed to listen in from their table. 'In Norway we haff wands and sceptres too.'

'Oh, that's true,' Hermione contributed. 'In the Muggle government some officials have wands of office, and the Queen carries a sceptre and an orb. Oh, and there's also maces. And in several religions there's all sorts of--'

'Yes, thank you,' Rolvsson interrupted, when it became clear Hermione was prepared to go on at length. 'At Durmstrang we learn to fight with battle staves. And I haff heard of many legends-- the dwarves of the far north haff magical axes, and goblins haff magical spears.'

'I don't know about spears, but the goblins do make magical swords,' Harry contributed diffidently. 'Mr Griphook from Gringotts said the Sword of Gryffindor is goblin-made. Terry Boot looked it up for me, he thinks it's more likely it was human-forged but treated with goblin magic to make it, er, magical.'

'Goblins don't use magic,' Ron protested.

'They're not allowed to use  _wands_ ,' Hermione corrected him. 'Because the International Confederation of Wizards outlawed it centuries ago. But they are, obviously, magical creatures, and they have their own kind of magic. Neville, what's the word for it? I can never pronounce it in Gobbledegook.'

'Fraeorslaggekynd,' Neville said, or something like it, around a mouthful of pudding.

Rolvsson had rather lost the momentum of his speechifying. 'We do not haff goblins in Norway,' he tried to get in edgewise.

'I would like to meet a goblin,' Viktor said abruptly.

'Well, they're mostly in Diagon Alley, for work, that is,' Hermione answered. 'They're fairly secretive about their broods-- that's what goblin dens are called, in British English at least. But there are northern clans and southern clans which implies they must live in the north and the south, doesn't it follow logically? And there are some European clans, and quite a large number in South America, though there's speculation the Patagonian goblins are a genetically distinct species or subspecies, like  _homo sapiens_ and Neanderthals.'

'Maybe you haff a book about goblins?' Viktor asked her.

It was quite possibly the first time anyone had asked Hermione for additional reading. It quite flustered her. 'Oh,' she said, 'I-- that is-- I would be-- be very happy to recommend one from the Library. We have a decent selection on... on magical creatures.'

'Not werewolves,' Harry muttered, but only Neville heard him, and gave him a sympathetic look which Harry pretended not to see.

'Thank you,' Viktor said. 'I do not read English very well, but it is good to learn.'

'I've c-certainly always thought so,' Hermione said.

Oh, good lord. Harry recognised that look. She was blushing, her cheeks delicately flushed. It looked better on her than on Umbridge, that was certain.

'I'd like to read it too,' Ron blurted from Harry's other side.

'You would?' Hermione blinked at him. Then came over suspicious. 'You're having me on,' she accused.

'M'not! I genuinely want to, uh, learn. About goblins.' Ron sat up taller on his bench. 'Truly!'

'All right,' she said slowly, unconvinced. 'Well... I'm sure I can find several texts actually, so maybe we could all go to the Library after supper and check them out? And we could meet after class to discuss, do you think Wednesday might be soon enough? We could even split up chapters, since there's three of us, and write outlines for each other to trade. Is six chapters apiece enough?'

'Six!' Ron spluttered. 'I, er... I mean, sure. Yeah. Perfect.'

'What are you on about?' Harry wondered, but Ron threw an elbow into Harry's ribs, and he got no further with that line of enquiry.

At any rate, there was to be no more dinner chatter. At the Head Table, Dumbledore was rising, and all throughout the Hall plates cleared from the tables. By the time Dumbledore had taken his podium, all eyes had gone eagerly to the front. 'Finally!' one of the twins declared, and that sentiment seemed to be widely shared amongst the students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, who all fell into an anticipatory silence.

'How lovely,' Dumbledore beamed at them all. 'We have a very special guest who joins us tonight to announce something I think you are all quite excited to hear. With no further ado, I present Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and Coordinator of this year's Triwizard Tournament!'

The applause for Mr Crouch was somewhat more enthusiastic than many a bureaucrat might expect, and Mr Crouch was obligated to twice gesture for quiet. When the students had finally settled in a bit, Crouch only got it all going again by placing something very large on the lectern and whipping off its drab cloth to reveal a glowing crystal cup. Everyone burst into cheers all over again, crowing madly.

'Children, children,' Crouch waved them down again. 'Now: I am here to inform you all of the rules which will govern this year's Tournament. As you may be aware, there will be six Tasks in this year's Tournament. In a nod to these modern times and the spirit of cooperation between our three sister schools, we have expanded the Tournament from the traditional three Tasks to enable more of you to compete. But! But!' he called out, having to shout to be heard over the next round of cheers. 'Though the first three Tasks will be open to all, Champions from each school will be chosen from the winners of those rounds, and only the Champions will proceed to the last three Tasks.'

This was greeted, predictably, with resounding boos. Crouch waited it out with a smile, resting a hand casually on the Cup. 'Now, now,' he said, when it had begun to peter out. 'Let this only impel you to try harder, fight your utmost, and, as they say, bring your best game! And on that note, let us begin with the beginning. Any of you prepared to compete in the Tournament may put your name forward between this hour and dinner tomorrow, when the first Task will be announced. As an additional encouragement, I am pleased to inform you all that this year's Final Champion will be the proud winner of a reward-- one thousand galleons to the boy or girl who rises to the top of the class! To all our competitors, I say-- good luck!'

There was a mad dash to the Cup of the keenest. The twins were first, scrawling on a bit of parchment ripped from the bottom of an essay Percy had been working on-- his outraged cry punctuated their theft-- and got their names writ on two slips which they threw into the Cup, turning about to high five each other. Two Durmstrang boys were hot on their heels, and a Beauxbatons girl (or boy, with the long hair Harry still hadn't got most of them sorted) just after them, and a ragged queue was forming. Reluctantly Harry hauled himself to his feet, figuring he might as well make a good showing of it. He couldn't help dragging his feet a bit as he joined the queue, surprised to find himself battling Viktor for the last place. 'Oh, please go first,' he offered, but Viktor declined with a steady rain of his flat 'No's til Harry had no choice but to go ahead of him. He borrowed a quill that was going back through the line-- Percy's quill, judging by Percy's insistent harangue it was his favourite quill and George was going to buy him a new one if it got lost in the hubbub-- and scratched his name on the back of an expired Library pass he found in a pocket. He ripped it in half to give Viktor a bit of it, and shared on the quill. Viktor, he noticed, did not blotch and rip the parchment as Harry had, but he supposed no-one was really judging them on handwriting. He folded it smaller and smaller as they inched toward the Cup, half hoping his sweaty palms would blur out the words entirely and end his obligation before it began. But there was nothing for it. When his turn came, Harry took a deep breath, stepped up on the dais, and flung his parchment into the Cup.

'Harry! WOOOOO! Go, Potter, go!'

He was quite astonished to realise the cheers were coming from all corners of the Hall. He stood blinking dumbly, caught between one step and the floor, and was bumped from behind by Viktor's descent. Cedric, who had been earlier in the queue and put his name in already, was leading a chant from Hufflepuff, Cho at Ravenclaw bouncing on both feet and clapping for him. Millicent was hollering from Slytherin, and Draco and Theo and even Blaise who gave a lazy little slap of his hands before returning to his book. But on it went, and it wasn't just his friends. Even upper years were cheering for him. Cheeks suddenly blazing, Harry hurried back to his seat at Gryffindor, fully intending to duck out of sight til he found his back and shoulders being pounded by his Housemates.

'Don't be so modest,' Hermione whispered to him. 'You're a hero, and everyone loves a hero.' To Harry's great surprise, she topped this extraordinary statement with a kiss to his flaming cheek. This time Harry did duck down, but not before he caught the scowling stares of Ron and Viktor. Well, he supposed they might be a bit put out there were no cheers for them. Wonderful. Everything, Harry reflected from within the shelter of his arms wrapped about his overheated head, was too bloody hard.

'Excellent, excellent,' Mr Crouch called from the dais. 'The Cup will remain here overnight and through classes tomorrow. All who wish to may submit their names, but I implore you to remember-- the Tournament is not without its dangers. Your skill and your mettle alike will be tested. Students have perished in pursuit of this Cup, my young friends, and there is no guarantee you will leave combat the same as you entered it. Beware, then, and be aware of your own limits, for if you fail, the consequences may be grave indeed.'

'Wicked,' the twins agreed heartily.

'I wish he'd've said all that blather first,' Ron confided to Harry, looking a bit shaken. 'You don't think people've really died doing this?'

'I'll add a book on the Tournaments of the past to our reading list,' Hermione offered.

Ron forced a smile. 'Swell,' he said.

 

 

**

 

 

'This is getting confusing,' Harry said.

'No, it works out, I'm sure,' Hermione promised, checking over their maths once more. 'I'll go back this afternoon after I've done with Care of Magical Creatures and you go back after supper and we can both be there for Broom Making at three.'

'And it's all right for two people to be there using the time turner at the same time or-- wait-- is it the same time?' Harry rubbed his head. 'I don't hardly understand this enough to be doing it.'

'I checked the instruction guide they gave me and it doesn't say anything about two people using the time turner from different times to be in the same time. I do know you can bring someone back in time with you, so it must be all right, as far as I can figure. If we try to ask a professor, though, they'll know we're both using it, and I doubt anyone will approve. But at any rate I'll know by supper if it's worked, won't I? So I'll be able to tell you then if you should go back after all.'

'I don't in the least understand that,' Harry sighed, flinging up his hands. 'If you think it's all right, I trust you.' Harry balled up their scrap parchment and flung it at the fire. Flame licked at the folds and began to consume it from the edges inward, hissing when it met the fresh ink of their computations. 'Why didn't you put your name in? Everyone knows you're the best student of our year.'

'I don't like the idea of beating someone bloody to prove it.' Hermione sucked in a breath. 'Oh! That was horrid. Not that you do like beating up on people, of course, nor does anyone else I'm sure--'

The first Task had been announced the night before, and was scheduled for the upcoming Monday. It was to be a general melee, meant to whittle down the sheer volume of students who had put in their names. Harry had been present for the planning of the early Tasks and knew enough of the details to guess it would be sheer chaos, but chaos with a purpose; the youngest and least trained would probably be eliminated by the early rounds, leaving the older, most learned students-- and, quite probably, a few lucky or tricksier sorts. Harry had pointed out that the rules of the melee did not forbid teams, and he was certain any Slytherin worth their salt would find a way to take advantage of that. Then again, he supposed, anyone who teamed up with a Slytherin had to expect that the spirit of unity would not outlast the clock. At least they weren't meant to be doing each other permanent damage. All the professors would be on hand to reverse the effects of any hex or jinx with unfortunate consequences. The final fifteen would go on to the next round.

'You're probably right,' Harry said anyway. 'Baptism by fire for my new wand, at any rate. I'm not to be allowed to bring in the sword. Mr Crouch said the Tournament by-laws don't permit tools that would advantage one competitor over another.'

'Do you think it will stay away if you tell it to?'

'Dumbledore's going to try keeping it in his office. If it does show up on the field, I reckon I'll be disqualified. I'm not sure I can make it understand that.' Harry reached over his shoulder to give the pommel a warm caress. 'I've tried a stern talking-to and I'll beg a bit Monday morning. We'll see.' The morning bell announced breakfast was imminent, and was swiftly followed by dozens of feet on the stairs as students began to emerge for the day. Harry climbed to his feet and offered Hermione a hand up. 'See you at Broom Making, then.'

The Light Guard had grown a great deal with events of the previous schoolyear. Once confined to Cedric's girlfriend Cho Chang and Ron's twin brothers, membership had bulged to include the disgraced professors who had been forced out of Hogwarts in the purge of staff that had followed the petrifications and murders of the Heir of Slytherin, later revealed to be Tom Riddle. Some had managed to return to their posts after all the fuss had died down-- Hagrid had been re-hired as Game Keeper, Sybil Trelawney the Diviniation instructor had been re-hired too after no-one else had applied for the post-- but some had taken on new roles cleverly crafted by Dumbledore to keep them near. Filius Flitwick, the half-goblin professor of Charms, had already been replaced by Dolores Umbridge who wouldn't so easily be pushed out, so Flitwick had taken up the teaching of a special advanced course and was offering to host two apprentices a year, and found himself with dozens of applicants who all remembered him fondly and were more than eager to overlook his questionable heritage to take advantage of his brilliant mind. Rolanda Hooch, previously their Flight instructor, had been outed as a were-eagle, a condition so rare as to defy Ministry regulation, which tended to focus on werewolves and other more obviously problematic weremen. Madam Hooch, in fact, had been hired on by the Liverpool-based Quidditch team the Purple Pudlies, and they had already had a summer season amateur league-wide victory under her direction. Happily for Harry's purposes, Madam Hooch had also been brought back by Dumbledore to coordinate Quidditch at Hogwarts, keeping her near at hand to lecture, supposedly, for their faux-Broom Making elective.

The Light Guard was also the first time outside classes many of the students were able to congregate, spanning as they did third to seventh years and all four Houses. When Harry, having used the time turner in the shelter of Hagrid's hut and emerging from the dizzying whirl of magic not to evening twilight but mid-afternoon sun, hurried through the garden to seat himself on some hastily-arranged picnic blankets, he found himself in a large company of friends all chattering happily together. If Harry had accomplished nothing else at Hogwarts, he supposed, he was proud to have been part of this. Watching Theo Nott poring over a large book with Terry Boot and Cho, or Blaise offering Hermione a place on the garden bench beside him, or Cedric talking Quidditch with Madam Hooch and Oliver, or even, wonder of wonders, Professor Snape being polite to Charlie Weasley and Ron, Harry thought himself quite content with the world.

At least until all eyes turned to him. Draco, crammed in next to Harry tight enough that he wouldn't accidentally brush up against any dirt beyond their quilt, gave him a nudge. 'You're up, Harry,' he whispered.

'Er.' Harry coughed to clear his throat. 'Er... thank you all for coming.'

The twins pelted him with gooseberries plucked from Hagrid's shrubs. 'Get on with it, Potter!'

Harry ate one of the berries that had fallen to his lap. 'Do you reckon we ought to have an actual class, in case anyone comes by to check on us? The first time at least?'

'I did prepare some notes on the subject, in case it was needed,' Flitwick assured him from his perch atop a pumpkin. 'But, if I may, I think the reverse may be our greatest need. We should make the most of our opportunity in case we are found out, and are then unable to meet again.'

'Agreed,' Snape said, picking hay off his green robe with a little moue of distaste.

'Actually, it may not be a bad idea to spend a bit of each meeting on learning,' Sirius offered from where he sat somewhat off to the side, half-hidden by Fang's bulk as the big dog clearly imagined himself a lap puppy and had sprawled all over Sirius's outstretched legs. Sirius petted his floppy ears idly as he talked. 'Did all of you sign up for the Tournament? We could cover some useful spells for the melee.'

'Isn't that an unfair advantage?' Cedric wondered.

'Obviously,' Blaise said. 'And yes, please, let's do that.'

'It's not that the Tournament's not important, but I think it's a distraction,' said Percy. 'The real purpose of the Light Guard is to be ready when Tom or You Know Who strike again. If we're going to study spells, it should be the kind of magic we'll need to know to fight them.'

Harry set his back to the overturned wheelbarrow behind him, shifting his shoulders til he found a comfortable angle. Dobby had come up with several options for re-designing his harness for sword and new wand both, including ways to more easily shed the bloody thing when he had to sit. It was nice to have at least one thing going well. And the autumn sun felt good on him, warm and relaxing. It didn't even bother his eyes too much, if he closed them against the glare off the mountains. The buzz of insects and a faint whistle of passing breeze was soothing. He let the conversation go on without attempting to guide it.

'And I know the melee is about fighting each other, but we could try to learn things like how to fight as a unit,' Hermione contributed. 'I've read about some famous duelling partners--'

'It does take some doing not to get in each other's way,' Sirius mused.

'We should be making a list of all suggestions,' Cho said practically. 'Terry, let's you and I take minutes and we can rank all the suggestions after we've got the full list, and that will tell us how we need to structure the meetings after this one.'

'Ravenclaw,' Draco muttered, but Harry knew he liked the idea actually because he went digging through his rucksack for a notebook-- Slytherin green, Harry imagined behind his closed eyelids, knowing Draco as he did-- and then the notebook was being passed over to Cho and there was a brief disagreement on whether the minutes ought to be formal or if just the list was enough-- never write anything down you don't want your enemies to read, Snape warned them-- but then it was all going on again, a robust discussion of what would and wouldn't be best or what would be good but not most necessary and did any of the professors have a full curriculum so they'd know they weren't overlapping any of the classes and on and on...

'Harry? Harry, dear child.'

He dragged his eyes open reluctantly. 'Sorry,' he mumbled thickly, trying to lift his heavy head. 'Fell asleep.'

'Sleep makes you vulnerable.' A gentle stroke of a finger against his temple followed the line of his scar. 'And in vulnerability, I'll be there, waiting.'

A chill chased down his spine. 'Who are you?' he whispered, staring up at the dark figure bending over him. Blurred and back-lit by the sun, too dark to make out, except for the warmth of the hand that cupped Harry's cheek.

'I'm waiting,' the dark man crooned at him, and then he vanished.

'Harry?'

Harry jolted upright. His glasses had slid down his nose, when his chin had hit his chest. 'Sorry,' he mumbled thickly, stretching his sore neck. 'Fell asleep.'

'Did you hear any of that?' Draco wondered exasperatedly. 'You know we're all here for you, you silly prat.'

'I heard most of it.' He rubbed quickly at his eyes and inhaled deeply, sitting up straight. 'Did anyone notice?'

'I don't think so. But stay awake, will you? This is important.'

'Right. I know. Yes.' Harry gave himself a vicious pinch to the inside of his arm. That did the trick, banishing the last of his sleepiness. 'Right,' he said, and forced himself to concentrate on his friends all talking round him.


	9. On Your Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which We All Have Our Particular Devil._

'Mrs Norris has had kittens,' Hermione announced at breakfast.

'Is that why you look as though you haven't slept a wink?' Harry wondered.

'I thought she was acting odd these last few weeks, not to mention gaining weight, but with all that long fur I couldn't see much,' Hermione went on. She did have a harried look about her, not to mention dark smudges beneath her eyes. She hurriedly plated toast, chipolatas, put those back when she recalled she wasn't eating meat any more, and substituted them with additional mushrooms and beans. Ginny handed her a cup of hot pumpkin juice, and she swallowed quickly without so much as sitting down. 'Only last night I hear all this racket under my bed and it was Mrs Norris giving birth! I'd have thought she was too old, honestly, didn't Mr Filch have her for years and years? Kneazles do have longer breeding capability than cats, but she's only part kneazle. Well, kneazle enough, obviously.'

'What are you going to do with the kittens?' Ginny asked.

'I'll have to find them homes! Oh goodness.'

'I'll take one, I'm sure Mum wouldn't mind. Actually, I'll write her to ask if she wants one too-- she used to have a cat familiar.'

'Maybe I could take one, too?'

'Oh, that would be wonderful, Neville!' Hermione beamed at him, but it faded to a frown. 'Although I'm not sure kittens will do well with frogs? You might want to keep Trevor the Toad separated from a kitten.'

'I left Trevor at home this year. He's getting on and he doesn't really like to leave the garden anymore,' Neville confessed. 'And he wasn't really much good as a familiar. Toads are meant to be good for herbologists but me Gran doesn't want me to spend so much time on herbology any more.'

'What does she want you to spend time on?' Harry manfully swallowed a sludgy spoonful of porridge. It was nearly thick enough this morning to leave the spoon standing upright in the bowl, and the chalky walnuts were sticking in his throat.

'Gran says anyone who wants to be anyone in the Ministry has to have high marks in Defence, even if you don't want to be an Auror.' Neville slumped despairingly over his breakfast, pushing a soggy tomato across his plate. 'I barely scraped an Acceptable last year.'

Harry was not alone in wincing. 'That's down to a run of bad teachers,' he said firmly. 'You'd do perfectly well with anyone competent.'

'It's hopeless. I'm hopeless.' Neville sighed. 'Maybe a better familiar will help.'

Harry turned at a tap to his shoulder. It was Draco, flanked by Millie and Theo Nott. 'Is that what you're wearing?' Draco demanded.

Harry glanced down at himself. Crowhill hoodie, check. Denim jeans, check. Shoes, check. Flies and laces both done up, check. 'Yes.'

'You don't have any pride,' Draco complained, shoving himself into a sliver of space between Harry and a mostly asleep Ron at his left. Ron grumbled but budged up without even opening his eyes. 'Listen, Potter, during the First Task today, do make an attempt, won't you?'

'I'm not planning to throw it,' Harry said, surprised at this.

'No, I'm not talking about trying to make it to the final fifteen.' Draco looked at him very seriously. 'I'm talking about watching your back.'

'It's a melee, of course I'll be watching my back. And my front, and my sides, and the ground and the sky for good measure.'

'A good start. But even you can be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Which is why Millie and Theo will be sticking to you like fleas on a crup.'

'Hold up, you're talking about a bodyguard?' Harry laughed disbelievingly. 'I don't need--'

'You will,' Millie interrupted. She gave Ron another shove, and sat herself when he cratered sideways to snore on George's shoulder. 'You'll be a target for every foreigner who wants to make their name beating the Boy Who Lived. And probably a few Hogwarts students who want the same.'

Harry scoffed. 'No-one cares about beating me.'

'You're younger and smaller and famous,' Draco said, ticking it off on his fingers. 'So an easy mark and a worthwhile one. The cleverer ones will be thinking they ought to wait til you've got higher in the rankings, so it's worth more when they knock you out, but the stupider types will come running for the first opportunity. Today, in case you're struggling to follow the logic.'

'Don't talk to me like that.' Harry sipped his milk, taking a long look about the Great Hall. No-one was paying him any especial attention. The Beauxbatons students were largely gathered together at the Ravenclaw table, where their Headmistress Madame Maxime was leading what appeared to be part pep rally and part last minute strategy plotting. The Durmstrang students weren't in evidence at all, having been detained for a longer than usual morning run. Harry had been shooed off with no lack of suspicious glaring from Igor Karkaroff, but it hadn't struck Harry as particularly sinister. 'You're just being paranoid,' he said.

'You're not paranoid enough. You know how many of them have Dark connections?'

'Their parents do. Might. That doesn't mean they do.'

'What else is the bloody Light Guard for if not this?'

'Shut up, Draco. There's still the question of getting one over on you, the great Harry Potter,' Millie interjected. 'The press are all over the Tournament-- British press, and they'll be very interested in whichever competitors float to the top of the pile for Champion. And if these lot want anything, ten to one it's a chance out of France or Eastern Europe. Every picture in newsprint, every radio interview is one step closer to a posh position on some committee or an apprenticeship with a guaranteed income.'

'So-- then-- whatever,' Harry surrendered, unwilling to bend the brainpower to untangling that. 'If you want to waste your day following me about, that's down to you. However objectively ridiculous it is. Do any of you want a kitten?'

'You're so weird,' Millie told him, and headed off for the Slytherin table for breakfast, Theo trailing silently in her wake.

'She's right,' Draco seconded, and pulled a loose thread from the hem of Harry's hoodie. 'You could at least wear school colours.'

'Black?'

'You look good in black.' Draco stood. 'Try to do us proud? Don't embarrass us by doing something stupidly chivalrous like letting a witch knock you on your bum because you're afraid to hit a girl.'

'Shut up, Draco,' Harry said, grinning at his friend.

'Wait, take a kitten,' Hermione shouted after Draco as he left.

 

 

**

 

 

Though Harry had helped to plan it-- or at least had been in the room as a lot of adults as they planned it over his head-- seeing it was something else entirely.

The hilly green yard which spread from the castle walls to the Black Lake on one side and toward the Forest on the other was now demarcated by a long rope fence marking the outer edge of the permissible melee grounds. The audience, which was considerably larger than Harry had expected it to be, was arranged on lawn chairs, giving the thing a sort of picnic air. Musicians playing in quartets were nearly drowned out by the buzz of some fifteen hundred people chattering merrily, and the Hogwarts elves were moving amongst the humans bearing trays of prawn cocktail, Scotch woodcock, French  _amuse-bouche,_ and Osetra caviar with salmon creme fraiche, potato shallot croquette, minced egg white and drizzled basil oil. Harry had been obliged to taste the menu and found all of it quite disgusting. But he was not obliged to eat any of it today. Today all he was meant to do was the best he could in the Task, and be polite to anyone who talked to him, which unfortunately included Rita Skeeter and her avid cameraman from _The Daily Prophet_. He managed to get by her as she was interviewing Viktor Krum and some other Durmstrang students, and slouched to join the Hogwarts competitors in queue under the banners announcing their schools, giving nods to anyone he knew and striving to appear relaxed. Inside, however, he was anything but. He was relatively confident in his new wand, less confident the sword would obey Harry's strict order to remain inside no matter what happened to Harry outside. And that was where his confidence ended. Despite the endless summer tutoring for just this situation, he couldn't stop thinking about what had happened when he'd tried to cast that jinx the first day of Defence class. Explosions in the middle of a melee would be very bad.

'Aren't you hot in that?' Harry asked Millie as she located him and took up a scowling stance beside him. It was quite warm out, but Millie was swathed to the chin in a bulky jumper and turtleneck. There were beads of sweat at her temples.

'Don't care,' Millie said pugnaciously.

'All right,' Harry agreed hastily, recognising that tone. Like most people their year, Millie had a couple of inches of height on him, not to mention formidable heft that made her as big as many of the older boys. It was just as well Millie would be on his side instead of competing against him.

'Didn't you want to compete, though?' he dared a few minutes later, as Theo joined them and the pitch of excitement from the Hogwarts crowd reached new heights of nerve and braggadocio. Quite a lot of students had put their name in. Cedric had given Harry a friendly wave, but was busy doing stretches to limber up. Cho was talking to Oliver, who was doing his familiar pre-game routine of head rolls, bouncing on the toes of his shoes, and light headslaps that reddened his cheeks steadily and had always seemed to Harry to be rather self-punishing. Draco had decided to compete, too, and was stood off to the side of the crowd with Crabbe and Goyle, who had loyally followed their leader. Harry would have laid down good money the big goons were playing bodyguard to Draco the way he'd sicced Millie and Theo on Harry. So Slytherin.

'No,' Theo said. Harry waited for further explanation, but that appeared to be all that was coming.

'Don't need the money, don't need the bother,' Millie shrugged. 'No-one our age is going to make it to the final Champion, anyway.'

Harry thought so as well. There was already a lively betting pool, maintained, of course, by Fred and George. The enterprising bookies had top odds on several seventh years, Cedric included, though Rolvsson was currently leading the pack. Harry could just about see him over the crowd of Beauxbatons between Hogwarts and Durmstrang. The tall blonde boy was holding court even now.

'Harry!' Ron came hustling up, only just in time for the peal of the bell announcing the Task was about to begin.

'What took you?' Harry demanded. 'I thought you'd dropped out.'

'Had to run back in for this.' Ron was hastily unwrapping a flapjack, scattering crumbs as he bit off huge chunks at a time, trying to cram it in before the start. Harry rolled his eyes. 'Hey, got you one too,' Ron protested, spraying oats as he tossed a brick at Harry. Harry caught it and stuffed it into a pocket.

'Welcome, welcome all!' It was Dumbledore, who stood now on the raised stage that hovered high over the grounds, where the judges would be observing. There was another one on the other side of the castle. 'Welcome to the first Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Our proud tradition of the  _tourney_ brings warriors together in unparalleled displays of courage, strength, and skill. An even prouder tradition is that our Tournament is not an exercise of war, but an exercise of peace, and in that tradition we gather here today to observe displays which will only aim to disarm, not to harm.'

A rousing cheer rose from the audience. Harry wiped sweating palms on his jeans.

'We have the dual pleasure of welcoming some of Wizarding Britain's best and ablest to our First Task today. To my left, a pair many of you will know by voice: Mr Randolf Lyndsay and Eunice Braddock of  _Network News_  with Wizarding Wireless Network, who will be commentating today's event for those listening at home.' A dapper man in a plaid suit and a pudgy witch wearing an enormous Gainsborough hat waved from the platform. 'And to my right, our judges. Each has been selected from experts in their fields, and representatives of our governments and the International Confederation of Wizards, carefully chosen to ensure there can be no bias toward a particular school or country of origin, and each have pledged their objectivity and good faith. A cheer, if you please, for Eszter Hajna and Attila Hunzhan, Alastor Moody and Llinos Cadwallader, Ingibjörg Ingólfsson and Candide Bourdillon, Évariste "Fanny" Larue, Louis Mbalenhle, and Sarita Chaudhari!'

Harry clapped again, mechanically. His stomach was not particularly happy. He wanted nothing so much as to sit in a dark room somewhere, blessedly alone, with nothing expected of him but a good long nap.

'Today's melee will pit our competitors against each other for the first round of eliminations. Our competitors, who are, I see, girded and ready for most honourable battle, have volunteered themselves to represent their schools as follows: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the Durmstrang Institute; and Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons. From these stalwart young scholars shall arise a mere fifteen who shall compete in the next Task. We shall not delay you unduly, dear children, but first, a quick reminder of the rules.'

Barty Crouch had that job, setting his wand to his neck and projecting his voice fit to be heard by all who waited in tense anticipation. 'The rules are as follows,' he boomed, reading from a small scroll. 'One: No weapons other than wands are to be allowed. Two: No curses shall be performed, only jinxes, hexes, and other non-lethal charms. Three: Teams are allowed, but only individuals will be awarded final placement in the next round. Four: You may range across the grounds to the fence at the outer edge and to the castle stones as the inner. It is not permitted to leave those boundaries. Five: No points shall be awarded for the First Task-- the only means to move into the next round are to remain on the field to the final fifteen. Six: All rules infractions will result in immediate expulsion from the Tournament with no appeal.' He nodded to Dumbledore and lowered his wand.

'With no further ado,' Dumbledore said, and raised his wand high overhead. Sparks flew from his wand, arcing into the sky with a thunderclap. 

The students at the banners lurched into movement. Harry, Millie, and Theo, toward the back as they were, quickly saw why eagerness was an advantage-- those closest to the banners went running pell-mell and made it out of range of the first hexes as battle was joined. Those coming in after were subjected to a barrage of spells from all sides. Harry called up a shield the moment his foot crossed the threshhold, and a good thing he did, as he was immediately hit by three different jinxes. Theo shielded him from the next, as Millie took the offence. 'We need to move!' Harry shouted at them, and waited just long enough to catch their acknowledgement before he took off at a sprint. They had to dodge as they ran, and Harry concentrated solely on getting to shelter. 'There!' he called over his shoulder, ducking the whizzing of a hex flying past his head. 'The tree!' He stumbled over the roots of the huge old oak, and overturned the weathered old picnic table with a swish of his wand. He set his back to it, breathing hard, and yelped as Millie and Theo tumbled into him from either side.

'Now what?' Theo panted.

They were barely a third of the way onto the grounds. By now, those in the lead could be all the way round the castle, headed toward the Forest. By the sounds of chaos all about them, Harry knew it wouldn't be long til the stragglers began taking out anyone who'd done exactly what Harry had just done, try to dig in fortifications.

'We need to move,' he said. 'Anyone in a team could surround us.'

'Where do we go?' Millie asked. 'It's your show.'

'We need to get to higher ground.' Sirius had walked Harry through strategising by describing some of the grimmest fights of his brief Auror career. Dark wizards were devious creatures, Sirius had said, but there was no disputing their effectiveness. He'd refought battles with salt shakers and pepper mills, depicted narrow alleys of forks and knives, and always, every time, made it clear that the difference between life and death was keeping a cool head and remembering the golden rule: get the higher ground before they do. 'Our best chance is higher ground. The castle at our backs would stop anyone coming at us, and we'd have a clear shot at anyone below us.'

Theo rose up cautiously on his knees, taking a quick peek and falling flat when a jinx spewed wooden splinters where his head had been. 'Pretty crowded out there.'

'The rules didn't say we had to go out there without protection.' Millie aimed at the table with her wand. 'One of you blokes want to help a lady, already?'

'Oh. Right. Good idea.' Harry aimed his wand as well. 'On three. One-- two-- three--'

' _Leviosa!'_ they chanted, and the table rose with the motion of their wands, dangling feather-light and hanging somewhat unevenly in the air.

'Theo, shield our feet,' Harry instructed, raising the table with them as they all stood. 'It's going to be tricksy, our backs will be exposed once we're far enough out. I'll walk backwards, I think I can do that and keep the table up, but if I have to cast anything else the table will fall. Can you keep it up, Millie?'

'Do my best,' Millie promised.

'All right. Let's move.'

They had a few near misses. Some seemed random, a pair of Beauxbatons students running past hurling hexes as they went, a lone Hogwarts student Harry half-recognised from Ravenclaw who fell to Harry's Leglocker jinx. His first elimination. Savage would be proud he'd finally done it right. The table made its wobbly way before them til Harry judged they'd got about halfway, and recommended they flip to protect their flank instead of their front. Their gambit attracted more and more attention as they went, and it wasn't long before they had a concerted effort to maintain their wards against attack after attack. Harry left maintaining the table levitation to Millie and spent his energy on defending them, Theo--

Theo fell with a yell, swatting at a swarm of bees which disappeared the moment Harry took out the caster, a Beauxbatons girl who shrieked when Harry threw an instant scalping hex at her. They left her clutching the fallen-out strands of her once luscious locks-- 'Go!' Theo urged them, even as a blue flame appeared above his head and the girl's, eliminating them. Then-- 'Harry!' Theo shouted, just as Harry started to turn away. A heavy shove tanked him from the side, and he hit the ground just as a  _Steleus_ hex took Millie in the face. She sneezed uncontrollably, almost snuffing her blue flame, but Harry barely had time to see what had happened, busy throwing himself out of the way of the table as it came crashing down. He only narrowly avoided a crushing, and shielded himself again not a second too soon. A jinx splattered against his shield, and another and another. He'd be stuck on his back in the grass for the rest of the melee if he didn't-- he sucked in a deep breath, inching up onto one knee, and readied himself.

 _'Collo--'_ His mind blanked. 'Shoe,' he added uncertainly, but it must have been good enough, because the boy who'd been trying to eliminate Harry pinwheeled his arms and fell over backward-- or the upper half of him did. His shoes stayed stuck flat to the grass. Hastily Harry cast another shield, and an Engorgio bounced off it an inch from his nose.

'Not bad, Potter,' Rolvsson said. 'Had to try, you know.' He offered Harry a hand. 'You lost your team-- want to partner up?'

'Pass,' Harry said. 'Can't risk it, you know.'

Rolvsson grinned at him. 'Clever bit with the table. Hope you make it to the next round.' With a whirl of his red robe, Rolvsson was gone.

'Sorry,' Harry apologised to Theo and Millie, who were trudging off now. 'I should have believed you.'

'Watch your back,' Millie advised him. She waved. 'Good luck.'

Harry spared a moment to collect himself. They'd made it nearly to the castle walls. If he could get low by that tumble-down of mossed-over bricks from a crumbling wall, he wouldn't be immediately noticeable in his grey hoodie. That assumed he could actually make it that far. He'd gone no more than a few metres before a jinx sent him lurching. He hexed back reflexively, little more than a blast of air, but it was at least forceful enough to scatter the three Durmstrang students who were chasing him up the hill. The one in the lead got a blue elimination flame, but the other two kept coming, and there were more where they came from. Harry found himself hard-pressed to keep ahead of them, scrambling backward frantically casting every spell he could think of. The Durmstrang students were older, more skilled, and plenty agile, everything Draco had warned him, and they were nimbly ducking and weaving away from every spell Harry tried, and constantly forcing him to deal with them separately, unable to catch them together long enough to eliminate them both. ' _Accio_ tree branch,' Harry cried, slashing at the air with his wand. A large stick of oak followed his gesture, whipping up on a dangerous trajectory. The eldest, a girl with a long dark braid, saw it coming and flattened herself just in time to the grass, but it caught the boy in the back. It bowled him over with a smack that had the other two wincing.

'Sorry!' Harry said, stepping toward him with a hand extended to help him up. 'Are you all--'

' _Anteoculatia!'_ the girl said coolly, wand level with Harry's head. It was his turn to flatten himself, dropping where he stood and bruising his tailbone with the jolt of the fall. He fought through the pain, raising his wand, searching his mind frantically for a spell, what was that tickling hex Dumbledore had taught them first year? 'Titillan--'

_'Ebublio!'_

The girl got out an indignant gulp before the enormous magical bubble enclosed her. The elimination flame popped it only a moment later, but Harry didn't have the concentration to spare it. Étienne Legrand from Beauxbatons had sneaked up behind the girl, and now turned his attention to Harry, a smirk on his lips.

'Barely an hour into the melee,' he told Harry. 'You're not so good as I expected.'

'No?' Harry pointed his wand at Legrand's feet and hurled a toe-biting jinx. Legrand blocked it, but he was too slow recovering to stop Harry flinging a handful of dirt at him. He flinched away automatically, and Harry caught him sidelong with a Vermiculous. He was slightly overenthusiastic, however, and Legrand's wand hit the grass when his entire arm, not just his fingers, turned into a large wriggling worm.

'Merde!' Legrand stared in sick fascination at his transmuted limb, gasping when it slithered out of his sleeve and flopped free to the ground. 'How did you do that?' he demanded, as the elimination flame flared above his head. 'I have never seen this spell before.'

'Er, sorry,' Harry said. 'That happens with my spells sometimes. I'm sure they can fix it? I hope.'

'Vous êtes une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde,' Legrand snarled at him, grabbed up his still wiggling arm, and stalked off in a huff.

'Rude,' Harry muttered, shoving himself to his feet.

'Potter?'

A jinx shattered the stone above Harry's head, spraying him with fine grains of sand. Harry dove to the right, into the shelter of the ring of standing stones. A thunderstorm of tiny proportion formed over his head, dispelled by Harry's quick Finite, and he dared to peer over the rockfall just in time to see Oliver take out a Durmstrang wizard with a creative jinx that encased the other boy's head in a pumpkin. As his opponent staggered off, yells muffled by gourd, Oliver turned to take on a young witch from Beaxbatons. Harry was faster, though, and his knee-reversal hex broke her wards. She toppled backwards, tripped over a ditch, and went tumbling out of sight with a yelp.

'Thanks,' Oliver said. 'Er... mind if I hex you?'

'I mean, a bit,' Harry hedged.

'Oh.' Oliver scratched at his curls. 'Well... then... wanna see who else is still in it?'

'Yeah, okay.' Harry stopped himself a step later. 'You can go first, maybe.'

'Definitely no, mate.'

'Together, then. Exactly at the same pace.'

'Good compromise.'

'Percy cheering for you?' Harry asked, as they jogged round the castle. Harry hadn't noticed before how rocky it was here. He supposed when you were flying over it on a broom it was all a lot smoother.

'Yeah, though I think he's back on the other side. His mum and dad came, what with the twins and Ron and Ginny competing.'

'Ginny's competing?' He hadn't seen her put her name in or in queue at the banner. Then again, he'd overlooked the large group of Gryffindor girls who had seemed to be giggling more than preparing. If she'd been there with other first and second years-- 'Luna,' he said, suddenly realising he'd seen a blonde head of hair before he'd been distracted. 'I bet she teamed up with Luna. We have to find them!'

'Harry Potter to the rescue, eh? Poor damsels in distress?'

'Ginny's got the best bat bogey hex I've ever seen. I'm not worried about her-- much. But I'd very much like to see they're all right.'

'Perce'll appreciate it,' Oliver allowed. 'After you, then. So to speak.'

There was a large commotion around Hagrid's hut. The building itself was off-limits, but the pumpkin patch was not, and there was quite a lot of cover to be had if you were willing to go in what was essentially a large circle taking shots at each other amidst a crowd of agitated ravens. Oliver got an elimination by hexing a Beauxbatons wizard from behind-- 'George got me with that one last year,' he told Harry breathlessly-- and Harry saved Cho Chang by shielding her from an Aqua Eructo charm that nearly soaked her with conjured water. Cedric was no-where to be seen-- no, there he was, popping up from behind a pumpkin to conjure a flock of birds, which immediately came together in a vee formation and swooped down on his target, a Beauxbatons witch who dashed the birds out of the air with a Bombarda. The flurry of feathers was rather appalling. Harry had to dodge an Orbis jinx that opened up a gaping hole in the soft soil, nearly sucking him in, and rebounded back the other direction out of the way of what sounded distinctly like a Ducklifors. 'Lockhart,' Harry said, half-laughing to realise that was an actual jinx, he'd been almost totally sure Lockhart had simply made it up. It whizzed past Harry and struck Dean, who shrank into a squawking duck and waddled off chased by a blue flame marking his elimination. Professor Vector scooped him up near the fence and carried him out of bounds, presumably to reverse the effects. Harry didn't have the time to watch. He'd just spotted a girl with yellow hair, taking off in a run for the ravine under the bridge.

'Luna!' Harry glanced about for Oliver, couldn't locate him, and gave him up for lost. Anyway, Oliver was plenty capable of taking care of himself. Harry went after Luna.

'Luna!' he called again. 'Luna!' But it wasn't Luna he was chasing, it was a Beauxbatons witch-- Fleur Delacour. She turned at his holler, flashed him a winning smile. Harry stumbled, slowing, too enamoured of her pink lips and the light blush of battle in her cheeks, the delicate muss of her long hair whipped by the wind like spun sugar--

The spell broke when she raised her wand and tried to hex him. Harry threw himself into a roll, tumbling in a scree of pebbles that slid him all too rapidly downhill. His fall quickly took him out of Fleur's range, skidding to a stop with the breath knocked out of him. He lurched upright, amazed to find himself in one piece, if a little bloodied from the journey. He shook rocks and dirt from his sleeves and kicked himself into a run again. If Luna had indeed made it to the ravine, she'd still be ahead of him. 'Luna?' he called. 'Ginny? It's Harry. Er, don't run away from me, I'm just here to see if you're all right LUNA!'

She appeared as if from nothing, popping up out of a bush mere inches from him. He jumped nearly out of his skin, even dropping his wand as his heart hammered out of his chest. She fetched his wand for him, handing it back. 'You're in quite a state, Harry,' she said.

'A bit,' he retorted, taking a shaky breath. 'You're doing well.'

'I am, thank you. How are you?'

'How am-- I'm in the middle of a melee, Luna, not--' He took firm hold of himself. 'I thought you might be teamed up with Ginny?'

'I believe she's up ahead. She's quite fierce, you know. I think her brothers teasing her before the Task began put a real fire in her floo, if you know what I mean.'

'I almost never do.' He laughed suddenly. Strange as it was, meeting up with Luna had immensely improved his mood. 'Well, shall we find her? We can stay a team til we know we're near the end, and I won't mind if you eliminate me.'

'Eliminate you?'

Harry jumped out of his skin again. How had Ginny got behind him? 'Hi,' he managed, heart pounding. 'Er, yeah.'

Ginny aimed her wand. 'Good timing,' she said. Harry stared at her open mouthed. He'd meant it when he'd said it, but he'd really thought he'd have a little longer on the offer--

_'Furnunculus!'_

Harry blinked. The feel of the jinx, like sharp wind, blew right past his ear, ruffling his hair. There was no way Ginny could miss from that near. He turned, wand at the ready, in time to watch Roger Davies's face erupt in flaming red spots. He wailed and ran away, hands clapped to his cheeks.

'Big baby,' Ginny said. 'The boils don't even hurt til they start popping.'

'I,' Harry stuttered. 'Er, I. Was just offering. Team up?'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Did you come to find us to protect us? I don't need protecting!'

'Well the rest of your brothers couldn't be bothered!'

Ginny scowled. 'Even when you're being stupid you're sweet about it.'

'This isn't the worst spot,' Harry noticed, turning about to survey the grounds. It had the same basic advantage of high ground; they'd be able to see anyone coming at them, and the river was at their backs. There was nothing to stop anyone from standing at the top of the hill and raining down hexes on them, but the same problem would have plagued him in reverse, if he'd stayed at the castle. 'The two of you should concentrate on shielding--'

'Urp,' Luna said, sitting very abruptly. A blue flame appeared over her head. Harry and Ginny jumped to action, sweeping the ravine for anyone who might be attacking them, but they appeared to be alone.

'How?' Ginny demanded.

'Oh, I eliminated myself,' Luna sighed. 'Only I was just thinking I wasn't wearing my favourite socks and if I could change the colour on these I might like them better, so I charmed them, only I must have got a bit of it on me. Sorry.'

Harry could only shake his head. 'Sorry, Luna.'

'Now what?' Ginny wondered, as Luna cast a cheering charm on herself, since she'd already been eliminated and needn't fear using magic anymore. They watched her skip off, humming to herself.

'Well, we could wait it out, or try to help whoever's left--'

Ginny cocked her head at him. 'Curiouser and curiouser. You know we're all trying to find you to do exactly the same thing?'

'What?'

'The Light Guard. Well, most of us. Fred and George think they're actually going to make it to the next round, they were horrid this morning when they saw I'd signed up.'

'I'm sure they just don't want you to be hurt.'

'I'm sure they don't want to be showed up by a girl,' she said tartly. He turned to offer her a hand over a large rock in their path, her small palm slipping on his. 'Oh,' she said, 'six o'clock--'

Harry whirled, wand at the ready. Gregory Goyle shrieked, freezing in place with his hands up. Draco shoved him from behind. 'Idiot,' Harry heard him say. 'Everyone, he's down there.'

There was quite a crowd suddenly descending into the ravine. Ron was galloping headlong toward him sporting an excited grin, and Cho followed with Cedric, Terry Boot, Miranda Thorne and the Patil twins and Seamus, George Weasley-- 'Fred got eliminated, he stopped to gloat,' George informed him-- Angelina Johnson and Lee Jordan, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. Draco and Goyle were the last. 'Crabbe punched someone,' Draco told Harry. 'Dum-dum forgot he had a wand.'

'But,' Harry began, overwhelmed. His friends enclosed him in their ranks immediately, as Harry stared at them all, gobsmacked at this show of loyalty. 'But,' he tried.

'Hush,' Draco told him. 'Everyone, you know the plan.'

'But,' Harry tried again.

'Everyone here chose this,' Cho assured him. 'We couldn't all make it to the next round anyway.'

'This has to be against the rules,' Harry said, last ditch effort to dissuade them.

'It's not,' Draco returned smugly. 'You heard Crouch, teams are allowed.'

'But not stacking the odds so only one of us makes it through!' Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses, trying to pull himself together. 'What's even the point of trying to get me into the next round? I'll just be eliminated then.'

'Maybe,' George said. 'But maybe not. The odds on you making it to the final three are surprisingly strong. Monetarily. Reality-based, probably slim to none.'

'You did defeat a basilisk,' Ginny pointed out.

'And You Know Who,' Cedric said.

'Twice,' Draco finished. 'Not mentioning you opened the Chamber of Secrets, rescued Regulus Black, me--'

'I didn't actually rescue you.'

'You did,' Draco said. Harry blinked at his serious tone, and Draco flushed slightly, cleared his throat. 'The whole school, if we're generalising. We are. The point is you're as qualified to win as anyone else and--'

'Duck!' Lee called from his vantage atop one of the large rocks, and then battle was joined again.

They weren't the only ones who'd teamed up. It was a mix of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and a few independent-minded Hogwarts students who led the assault on the ravine. Harry found himself shoved back toward the river, and fought against it, but within seconds there was so much chaos it didn't matter where he stood. The air was thick with magic, and he could feel it gathering like an electrical charge. Bodies bumped into each other, colliding til they spread out by sheer necessity, which only made them individually vulnerable. Pansy was the first to fall, Seamus almost the same time as her. Harry managed to deflect the first hex that nearly got Ron, but there was no dodging all of them, and it wasn't long before Ron, now spouting foot-long leeks from his ears, was eliminated. The Patil twins were duelling back to back, and were eliminated that way, entrapped with a glowing magical lasso and yanked off their feet. Harry never saw what got George, but he did see Blaise driven into the river, disqualified when lightning bolts chased him off the battlefield. At one point Ginny was fighting alongside Harry, then it was Draco, swishing and flicking with grace and narrowed eyes. Harry devoted himself to warding, but his shields couldn't cover everyone, and spells slipped through. They were decimating the enemy at least as savagely; the crowd was growing thinner and thinner. But so was everyone's energy. How long it went on, an hour or a dozen, Harry would never know, but he knew he was flagging, and he wasn't the only one.

'Help,' he gasped at his wand, clenching aching fingers about the smooth wood. And gasped again when warmth flooded him. Suddenly he felt he could fly without a broom, or run a hundred miles. His failing shields burst outward, blowing back the Durmstrang witches who'd been creeping down the ravine to close them in. And, as they fell, blue flames alighting over their heads, the bell began to peal. It was over.

The last of Harry's strength failed him. He collapsed to his knees in the soft dirt of the riverbank, shocked to find himself trembling, soaked in sweat, bright lights swirling in front of his eyes. Only a quick hand on his shoulder stopped him toppling over. Cedric pried his wand out of his fist, staring at him in something like awe.

'How,' he started, but stopped himself with a shake of his head. 'Miss Applebaum, over here!' he called, waving a hand high over his head.

'M'fine,' Harry slurred.

'Just breathe. Miss Applebaum, he cast some kind of spell, it was really powerful--'

Harry felt cool hands on his overheated brow. Miss Applebaum the mediwitch put something to his mouth, a flask of some kind, and Harry drank, gagging on the nasty flavour of whatever potion she was feeding him. It alleviated the pounding of his heart and the thundering echo of his heartbeat that throbbed in his temples.

'Classic case of magical exhaustion,' she said. 'Lay flat, Potter, we'll levitate you inside.'

'Don't need,' he tried, grasping weakly at Cedric's shirt and struggling to haul himself upright. Cedric assisted him, holding Harry up with an arm about his waist. 'Who else made it?'

'You, me, and Angelina,' Cedric said. 'Oliver chased someone over the top, don't know if he made it. They're calling us to the judges' platform.'

Harry leant on his wand, glad of its size now he needed the support. His knees were knocking. 'Anyone hurt?'

'Not permanently,' Miss Applebaum said dryly, gathering her bag. 'As soon as this farce is over, I want you in the infirmary, young man.'

Harry shuddered. Not on his life. If he logged another visit there, Umbridge would have him in Remedial Tutoring for the rest of his natural life. But he did let Cedric do the heavy lifting as they climbed out of the ravine.

The bedraggled winners of the First Task made a ragged circle about the judges' platform to the cheers of their audience and the somewhat less enthusiastic applause of the defeated who hadn't made it to the final fifteen. Harry waved at blurs he thought were his friends.

'Congratulations!' Dumbledore boomed overhead. 'Truly a magnificent battle. To all those who fought, our congratulations on your valour! To those who won, you have risen above your peers and will now be feted appropriately. Form a line, dear children, and receive your reward.'

'You all right?' Cedric asked him quietly.

'Yeah.' Harry forced himself upright, swaying dizzily. But he kept his feet, leaning on his wand like a cane.

The Heads of each school distributed medals and small scrolls. Oliver had made it after all, and so had Adrian Pucey from Slytherin and Su Li of Ravenclaw, giving Hogwarts six of the fifteen spots. Durmstrang had four-- Rolvsson had made it to the end, and so had Viktor, but none of the Durmstrang witches. Beauxbatons made up the gender deficit, with Fleur Delacour one of the four witches and lone boy representing their school and being fulsomely congratulated by their Headmistress Madame Maxime. Harry, who had once been given an award for stopping the troll Quirrellmort had loosed in the school, suffered this public recognition much the same as he had previously, blushing fiercely and attempting to vanish into the scenery. The dull roar in his ears might have been the crowd, or might have been his brain trying to drown out Dumbledore's cheerful speechifying. He mumbled something in reply when Dumbledore pinned the medal to his rather damp hoodie, but had to look up when Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Very well done, Harry, in all things,' Dumbledore said.

'Thank you, sir. But everyone else...'

'Followed where you led.'

Harry's cheeks were burning. 'Yes, sir,' he mumbled, and Dumbledore gave him a little squeeze, and moved on to give Angelina her medal. And then it was over, and students were flooding the field to cheer their champions. Harry found his back and shoulders pounded vigourously by dozens of familiar faces, all babbling praise, all shouting their favourite moment from the melee, all ecstatic with Hogwarts' fine showing. Everything faltered when Harry had himself an abrupt sit on the grass, but Fred and George handily covered for him by grabbing him up and hoisting him to their shoulders. That their trajectory was toward the hospital wing wouldn't be all that noticeable in the hundreds streaming uphill toward the castle and the feast that awaited them inside. Harry clung to ginger hair til they let him down inside the Great Doors and attempted to hustle him toward the stairs.

'No hospital,' Harry begged. 'Please, I'll just have a lie-down in the dorm.'

'Can't say as I blame you, I'm that knackered meself,' Fred said.

'Don't know why, you bowed out halfway through,' George muttered. 'C'mon, then, Potter, let's get you to bed.'

And so they did, though Harry retained little memory of it. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit his pillow, only vaguely aware of one of them pulling off his muddy shoes and socks, the other tucking him in tight with Dobby's knitted afghan. Someone removed his glasses, too, but he wouldn't give up the sword, which had been waiting for him or appeared when it knew Harry had come home, who knew, but it comforted him to know it was there again, and he clutched it close when they tried to tug it away. 'All right, have it your way,' one of the boys said, amused, and that was the last thing Harry knew.

 

 

**

 

 

He woke to the smell of hot soup and bird.

Fawkes sat on his chest, dozing with his proud neck squatted into fluffed-up scarlet feathers. Fawkes purred without opening his eyes when Harry raised a hand to stroke his crest. 'Hullo, beastie,' Harry greeted him sleepily. 'Nice to see you.'

'He's awake,' someone said, and the curtains of Harry's bed were drawn back, flooding his cocoon with the warm light of the stove. Harry gently removed Fawkes to perch on his headboard as he sat up, fumbling about his bed to find his glasses. Ron supplied them, and the soup as well, and Harry eagerly drank direct from the bowl, suddenly starving. It was a thick broth of beef and barley and it tasted better than anything he'd ever eaten, in that moment. 'Thanks,' he managed around a mouthful, as Neville provided him a napkin of crusty bread and a large treacle tart. 'What time is it?'

'After eight,' Neville said.

'Eight!'

'You slept all day.' Ron heaved himself up onto Harry's mattress and made himself comfortable against one of the posts. He grinned at Harry. 'We tried to wake you for tea and you threw a pillow at me.'

Harry's cheeks heated. 'Sorry, don't remember doing that.'

'S'all right. How you feel?'

'All right.' Chewing a savoury carrot from his stew, Harry stretched. Aside from a few aches, he seemed to have emerged from the melee without injury. His long rest had restored him, as well, though he doubted he'd made it any farther than the loo. His head had an overstuffed feel to it that wanted several more hours of sleep. Maybe he could borrow the time turner and use it for an extra nap. 'What did I miss?'

'Great feast,' Seamus piped up from his bed. 'I'm not too keen on all that Frenchie food, but those cabbage rolls stuffed with meat are pretty good.'

'Golubsti,' Neville told Harry.

'They're Ukrainian. They were good.'

Harry scraped the bottom of his bowl and sat back with a sigh, pleasantly sated. 'Is everyone mad at me?' he asked quietly.

Ron cocked his head. 'Mad at you? Why?'

'You all got eliminated.'

'Nah.' Ron shrugged, helping himself to some of Harry's bread. 'Were never gonna make it through, were we? Was fun to try though.'

'You might have done, if you weren't protecting me.'

'Draco was supposed to talk to you about this,' Neville frowned. 'Didn't he warn you?'

'About Millie and Theo. Not the rest of the bloody school.'

Ron rolled his eyes. 'Typical Slytherin. That explains why you ran away from everyone when you got in there. I spent an hour looking for you, you know.'

A prick of irritation made it through the buzz in Harry's head. 'Sorry to be such a bother,' he muttered, squirming a pillow behind his head so he could rest back. 'Sorry,' he said again, meaning it this time. 'I wouldn't have done that if I'd understood.'

'Yes, you would've,' Neville grinned. 'And you'd have been ages trying to dissuade all of us from doing it. Draco had it right. At least you had a little time to get used to the idea-- would've been damned disruptive if you'd tried to lecture us all in the middle of the melee!'

There was really no response to that except to thumb his nose at his friends. They laughed, and all was well again.

'Oh, owl came for you at tea,' Ron remembered then, as he climbed off Harry's bed. He produced a rumpled letter from his pocket, and a small package wrapped in brown paper. It had already been opened. 'Wasn't me,' he assured Harry hastily. 'Savage checked it first for curses and the like.'

Of course. Harry longed for the days of fan mail delivered straight to him with no Auror checking every string for spells. 'It's chocolate,' he discovered, turning back the torn foil to find Honeydukes Caramel Crunch, his favourite. He broke off a corner and shared it around, and burrowed back under his covers with a melting mouthful to read his letter. His heart gave a happy little lurch when he recognised the handwriting penning his name on the envelope-- it was from Remus.

 _Dearest Harry,_ it began.

_Nymphadora's brought me a wireless so I can listen to your First Task. As much as I wish I could be there to watch in person, this makes me feel connected to you, and I'm thrilled to be listening in even as I write this._

Harry smiled to himself. It thrilled him too, to know Remus had been part of it, even if he hadn't known it at the time. Somehow it made everything else not quite so bad, to know that. His little corner of the universe had grown by the weight of exactly one person who'd been missing for far too long.

Remus's letter was long, pages, sharing anecdotes of how Harry's parents had preferred this or that spell, asking Harry for greater detail on why he'd used one jinx over another, congratulating him on his creativity with charms and transfiguration instead of relying exclusively on hexes. He praised Harry's teamwork-- not knowing, as Harry himself had not known, that he was going to be teamed up whether he liked it or not. But he also told Harry lots about the melee of which Harry himself had been unaware, smack in the middle of it as he'd been. Remus had picked out several of the older students from other schools to follow and had a narrative of what each had done during the battle. It was no surprise to Harry that Rolvsson had cut a swathe through the competition, that Fleur Delacour demonstrated great cool and confidence and had taken the most eliminations after Rolvsson. Viktor Krum had done what Harry had thought of, station himself on high ground at the castle and stay there largely hidden til near the end, when he'd emerged to fell a few opponents and get himself top ranking.

But there was also what Harry craved most-- news of what Remus himself was doing. It came near the end, with a distinct change in tone, hesitation noticeable in the way his handwriting lost its flow and strokes of the pen grew choppy, words running to the edge of the paper and even hastily scratched out, when Remus had always carefully chosen his words before writing them.  _At first it was a relief just to be alone,_ he wrote.  _I think you may have an inkling what I mean; to not have someone always watching, listening, waiting for you to make that ~~fatal~~ slip. I had no-one I could really talk to, there, and I didn't want to talk to any of them anyway, it was as if my thoughts were the only thing I could keep to myself and even those were Tom's when he wanted them. I had no words for anyone and I couldn't hardly bear the press of so many people always near me. But this little safehouse has begun to close me in. There's a little garden, they gave me that much, and I spend as many hours as I can there, with the breeze, with the sky, with this sad little row of sneezeweed planted by someone very much indifferent to design. I've replanted the poor things and tried to spruce up the fencing a bit, though the Aurors object to purchasing me paint and brushes to do the thing properly. ~~I feel so alone here.~~ I miss you so very much. I thought of you all the time, Harry, for all I tried not to want for things I couldn't have. At night I would dream of you, of us, you and Pads and Da and our happy little cottage. Those dreams remain my only comfort and ~~I hope~~. ~~I hope we will~~. I hope we will have that again, with all my being._

_They've told me not to write to you of any of the goings-on that you oughtn't know. I suppose I have different thoughts than they do about what you ought to know, but the only way they'll let me send this letter is to agree to their terms, so I've done. And I don't at all wish to upset you, which means I hadn't ought to have written any of this, I suppose. My anxieties are compounded by being stuck here unable to move, to do, to help anything at all. They tell me the constant debriefs are helping, that I'm giving them vital intelligence, but it's not the same as being out there with a wand in hand, is it. I've never been what you'd call a willing warrior, not like Sirius or your parents, but I've never been much of a one for sitting still, either, and my long days are full of all these scattered thoughts of what I could be doing if they'd only let me. Nymphadora at least will let me go on telling her all the things I'd plan if it were me, and only then very nicely tells me to get stuffed. And she tells me about you and Sirius, which I need more than I need oxygen. You are what keeps me going, Harry, through these endless waiting hours._

_I fear I've gone and written more than I should. I love you, Harry, that's all that matters to me, and I have felt closer to you listening to them talk about you on the wireless than in months. It's uplifted me more than I can tell you. You are a wizard of immense talent, that much is obvious to the world after today, but you're my Harry, and I couldn't possibly be prouder._

_With everything,_

_Remus_

Harry folded the letter and set it under his pillow, alongside his glasses. He wiped at a film of moisture that had collected under his eyes.

Fawkes chirruped and hopped down from the headboard to Harry's head. He carded Harry's hair with his claws, settled himself in for the night, and hummed sweetly to Harry.

'I love you too,' Harry mumbled, and resolutely closed his eyes.

 

 

**

 

 

After the intensity of the melee everyone was quite ready for the announcement of a Hogsmeade weekend. The first trip of the year to the neighbouring village was always greeted with delight by the upper years and keen envy from the lowers, who were not allowed to go. It lent a festive air to the last day of classes, as Hogwarts students shared increasingly tall tales of the exotic fun to be had just next door. If their visitors from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons failed to be wowed over by Hogsmeade's wonders, it would be a deep insult in the making, that was sure.

Harry had mixed feelings about the venture. On the one had, it had been a near thing that he'd be permitted to go at all: he was considered a great security risk, he'd been informed several times in dire tones by Savage. Tonks had done her best to make it palatable for Harry, promising to escort him herself, but he knew Hogsmeade would have a full measure of Aurors stashed in every corner if he forced them to account for his presence there. He'd said no every time she asked if he wanted to go, and meant it. If it still pinched a bit at him to watch everyone kitting up, chattering away in excitement as they queued after breakfast to make the trek, he told himself it was for the best. He told his friends that, too, when they implored, singly and then in a large and difficult to argue with group, but promised he'd do nothing but rest with his free day, and as that was exactly what the mediwitch had ordered, the Guard reluctantly agreed. Harry waved them off, doing his best not to look overtly forlorn and lonely.

'I do not go either,' Viktor said, as they watched the last of the crowd heading out of the courtyard.

'Oh, you should,' Harry replied. 'It's really quite nice, if you like things.'

'Things?'

'It's mainly shopping, I think. Honeydukes and Sprintwitches and Tomes and Scrolls, I reckon that's where Hermione'll be all day. Zonko's, everyone loves the joke shop. Gladrags, they're funny, they've got the silliest socks. I got Ron a pair for Christmas last year, they scream when they get too smelly. Really that was a gift for all of us though, Ron would never send down for laundry if we didn't make him.'

'No,' Viktor said, his heavy brows coming together in a frown. He shifted uneasily on his bowed legs, boots scraping the stones. 'I do not haff much money,' he added, in a lower voice that was strained with something Harry thought was embarrassment or shame.

'Oh,' Harry mumbled, rather embarrassed and ashamed himself. He hadn't thought of that, that their guests might not be free to enjoy what he had come to take for granted. There had been a time when Harry hadn't two quid to rub together, but since coming into his wizarding heritage and the fortune his parents had left him, he'd gone from never thinking of money because he hadn't any to never thinking of money because he had more than he could possibly spend.

But inspiration struck, and Harry turned to Viktor with a grin starting. 'But that's perfect,' he said. 'I know something better than Hogsmeade anyway, and it doesn't cost a thing.' Viktor looked at him curiously, and Harry clapped him on the shoulder. 'Come on, then, we'd best get started.'

Viktor made a surprisingly good companion for sneaking about. He was in awe of the Marauders' Map, quite intrigued by the spellwork that showed every student and professor on the grounds, though the majority of the school's population had vanished off the edge of the map. He was even more captivated by Harry's invisibility cloak. Harry encouraged him to try it out, and thus was witness to the slow bloom of a true and joyful smile on Viktor's usually solemn face. It made him look an altogether different boy. They made a game of sneaking about the castle all morning, trying out secret passages Harry had never attempted before, sometimes descending hidden staircases amidst spiderwebs thick as ropes, climbing to the highest recesses of the barrel arched ceilings to peer down seven stories of air to the floor far below. They made a game of evading the teachers and Aurors, tip-toeing past under cover of the cloak only to giggle at their success and do it all again the next corridor up. Harry showed Viktor the locked door past which Dumbledore had hidden the Philosopher's Stone-- that required a great deal of explaining. Viktor had heard of Nicolas Flamel, of course, and was astounded Harry had known him, if all too briefly. 

'He was really nice,' Harry said, thinking of Flamel with old grief. 'I didn't trust a lot of people then. Adults. But he was really good to me, with no reason to be. That was just the kind of man he was.'

'You know many powerful people,' Viktor observed.

'It's nothing i did,' Harry shrugged. 'All that Boy Who Lived stuff... it's bollocks, most of it. Whatever happened when I was a baby, it wasn't anything I did.'

'I haff heard of the Chamber of Secrets? Is it on the map?'

'No, it's not on any map, we found that out last year.'

'But you know the way to it?'

Harry traced a crease in the map, folded over a note in Remus's script annotating the best place to hide contraband from the groundskeeper. 'It's gone now,' he said. 'They got rid of it.'

Noon found them famished, so Harry used the map to guide them to the kitchens. Harry introduced Viktor to the house elves, who gave up chiding Harry for being where students weren't meant to be and had them sat at the end of the long kitchen island with a feast for two before they could hardly blink. All the elves had heard about the Tournament and were full of questions, all with the particular bent of elves who saw the world quite differently from wizards. Harry did his best to answer, and Viktor gave up his shyness around the peculiar small folk to chime in as well with his own perspective. That they were being plied with hot pumpkin juice, endless sweets, and all their favourite foods didn't hurt anything.

'But it's only pretend fighting?' Tippy asked Harry anxiously as she rolled out a hundred feet at least of crust for dinner pies.

'Well, not pretend exactly,' Harry tried to explain. 'It's real spells, but we're not meant to hurt each other.'

'Master Harry Potter Sir Just Harry is not scared, is he?' Daisy wanted reassurance, her perky ears sagging til Harry promised her he was not, there was nothing to be scared of.

'A tournament's nothing, not after last year,' he said, and the elves all nodded wisely.

'The Chamber?' Viktor guessed. 'Where you faced your Dark Lord.'

'Sort of.' Harry dragged a chip through a dredge of gravy. 'It's too long to explain, but he was the diary of the boy who became Voldemort. Only the diary came to life, sort of, and he's who I fought.'

'We haff a Dark Lady,' Viktor said then. 'In Bulgaria. She came after the Communists. The government, they pretend not to know about her, they tell us it is old tales, that we are... how is the English... that we are country people, we do not know anything, we are stupid. But she is real. Every year, she takes a child.'

Harry's gut went tight. 'She takes a child?'

Viktor nodded into his pumpkin juice, his brows pulled low over downturned eyes. 'From a different village every year. She appears. She tells us we must choose the most beautiful child, only the most beautiful child, a boy or a girl. She came to my village when I was five. It is a good thing I am ugly, no?' He shrugged jaggedly at Harry's stuttered attempt to protest. 'What she does with the childs, no-one knows. Maybe they are well and happy. Maybe they are dead, and that is better than being alive with her.'

'The government just lets this happen?' Harry could hardly believe it. 'She doesn't have a, a, what was the word? A nemesis?'

'She did. She defeated her. Many years ago. Since the Revolutions of 1989 she has been quiet, but there are so many missing. Who would notice a few more boys or girls gone?'

'Someone has to do something,' Harry persisted.

Viktor gave him a long look. 'I think you haff enough to do,' he said. He finished his juice and put the cup aside. 'Maybe we go outside now? I would like some air.'

'Yeah.' Harry cleared his throat with an effort. He slid off his stool and pushed it under the lip of the island. 'Er, thanks,' he told the elves, who all looked up to beam at him from their workstations. 'Luncheon was wonderful.'

'Thank you,' Viktor echoed him. 'It was good to meet all of you. I haff never met an elf before and now I know so many. I will tell my mother and sisters all about you.'

'Alls about us!' Pippy nearly swooned. 'Elves is famous! Elves is in  _letters_.'

Her ecstasy put a reluctant smile back on Harry's face. 'You just made friends for life,' he told Viktor as they left the kitchens. 'They'll be your biggest fans, even bigger than Ron.'

'Ron?'

'The ginger in our dorm. The one who clutches his Quidditch magazines and stares at you all the time.'

'Ah,' Viktor nodded. 'He is strange, yes?'

'Very,' Harry laughed. 'I'm looking forward to Quidditch this year, you must be too.'

'Can I tell you secret?'

Harry pointed their way toward the stairs, nodding as he did. 'I'll keep any secret you want me to.'

'You will, won't you.' Viktor heaved a deep sigh. 'I do not like Quidditch much. To play is good, yes. The rest of it, no.'

'The rest of it? You mean being a star player, being famous, all that.'

'All that, yes.' Viktor stuffed his hands into his pockets, his steps dragging now. 'If I do not win the Tournament, or at least place well, I do not get to play Quidditch next year when I leave school.'

Harry blinked at this. 'Why would one have anything to do with the other?'

'If I fail, it will be bad press, yes? Bad for Bulgaria. They will take me off the team and then I will not haff any money for my family.'

Harry bit back his outrage. Then his sorrow. 'I'm really sorry, Viktor,' was all he could think of to say. 'What will you do, if... if you don't make it through?'

'I must,' was all Viktor could answer, and Harry supposed that about did for it, really.

'You told me a secret, I'll tell you one now,' he decided. 'Before we go outside, let's go to the Slytherin dorms.'

'To do pranks? I hear of this from other Gryffindors.'

'No. Although if inspiration strikes when we're down there, I won't say no.'

There were a few first or second years in the Slytherin common room when Harry let himself in, but aside from a few wide-eyed looks no-one protested his being there. Harry pointed a few interesting features out to Viktor, who seemed as enchanted by the windows onto the Black Lake as Harry always was, but it was the corner of the room that was Harry's destination. He hissed a sibilant welcome, and reached inside to gather up an armful of snake.

'You speak like it!' Viktor marvelled, staring at Harry with his eyes bugging.

'Parseltongue, yeah.' Harry's cheeks were faintly warm, so he turned his attention to the snake. She had been plucked from wherever she'd come from during Harry's mock duel with Ron at Sirius's Duelling Club debut; she was how Harry had discovered this particular talent. 'It doesn't really go over big here,' Harry said, stroking her smooth scales. 'Speaking to serpents. Voldemort speaks to serpents. He killed a lot of people that way.'

'I haff always wanted to do it,' Viktor breathed, holding up a big hand for the snake to scent. 'They teach it at Durmstrang but I do not haff time with Quidditch.'

'I'll teach you. Here, try "Hello".' He hissed it in Parseltongue, repeating himself til Viktor caught on and was able to repeat it.

'He is slow,' the snake observed, 'if that is all he can say.'

'Hush,' Harry admonished her. 'Now try, "you are very beautiful",' he instructed, knowing the snake would change her mind once she got what she deemed a fit amount of praise. Indeed, when Viktor managed it, she preened, accepting a transfer to Viktor's arm and nosing her way up his shirt to drape about his broad shoulders. 'She's a horrid flirt,' Harry said, smiling at this.

'You haff a good home here.' Viktor looked about him with a small, disbelieving shake of his head. 'Thank you for showing me.'

'My pleasure.'

'I will be sorry to defeat you in the tournament.'

Harry laughed. 'Perfectly all right,' he said firmly. 'I'll be rooting for you.'

'What is "rooting"?'

Harry laughed again. 'Never mind. Come on. I bet the Pitch is open. We could fly for a few hours before everyone's back from Hogsmeade.'


	10. Sub Rosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Life Can Only Be Understood Backwards._

'FILTH! FLEA-BAG! BLOOD TRAITOR! DOG!'

'Wolf, actually,' Remus muttered balefully, eyeing the portrait which continued to shriek invective in a jaw-tightening register. 'I thought Sirius had taken that down.'

'Can't,' Shacklebolt replied in his laconic way, regarding the painting of Walburga Black as if he were determining whether or not to squish a cockroach that had wandered too close to his shoe. 'Irreversible sticking charm, and it's a load bearing wall, can't be removed.'

'No better than you ought to be,' Walburga threatened the Auror. 'A blackamoor in my house!'

'Old-school racism,' Shacklebolt said, sounding almost impressed. 'Haven't had that one thrown at me before.'

'FILTH! MUD-BLOOD! MUD-RACE... Regulus?'

Heads turned toward him in the sudden silence. Regulus would have drawn a deep breath, had his lungs worked. As it was, he reached for the locket he no longer wore and wrung his numb hands together instead.

'Mother,' he greeted the portrait quietly.

'Regulus.' His mother's image stared wide-eyed at him. He didn't remember her as she appeared in oils, a flattery of careful brush strokes that downplayed the harsh lines of a face more accustomed to frowns than smiles, the grey of her thinning hair tinted silver instead and forever pinned and tucked into a stylish Edwardian masterpiece of fingercurls and plaiting she had long given up by the time Regulus had left this house. He could remember Kreacher caring for her hairpieces on faceless mannequin heads, carefully applying lavender-scented powder and picking out the lice with his small fingers. She had been a beauty, once, and Regulus supposed he couldn't blame her vanity for wanting to be beautiful in death as well. He would have had her painted as kindly, if he'd outlived her.

'But you died,' his mother whispered, and her hands mimicked his, clasped so tightly the tendons stood out in peach and cream on the canvas.

'Yes,' Regulus said.

'I missed you so much.'

'Yes, Mother.'

'But you've come back,' she said eagerly. 'You've come back to take title and raise our family to prominence once more! You will take your father's seat on the Wizengamot and--'

'No, Mother. Sirius is doing that.'

'We do not speak that name,' she spat. 'Filth. Mud-blood lover. Blood traitor! DOG--'

'And proud of it,' came the snarl behind him, and darts of blood-red light flew past Regulus's shoulder to singe the painting. Walburga screamed and vacated her portrait at a run, trailing curses. Sirius strode through their crowd in the foyer and grabbed for the dusty curtains to either side of the heavy gold frame. He threw them closed and conjured chains to bind them, then bellowed 'KREACHER!'

A soft whuff of air was his answer. 'It wants something?' the ancient elf demanded snidely.

'I told you to stop touching this!'

'It does not rule here, my Mistress--'

'Is a rotting carcass six feet under,' Sirius told the hunch-backed elf viciously. 'Not for long, though, I'll dig her up myself and set her old bones on fire, how do you like that?'

'Sirius,' Regulus tried.

'It wouldn't dare!' Kreacher moaned, clapping his crooked hands to his ears and rocking himself.

'Just to see you weep over the ashes, you little worm--'

'Pads,' Remus said. 'Don't.'

Sirius wouldn't allow himself to look in Remus's direction. The strain of not-looking was writ all over him, lips flattened and white, his wand fisted so tight he might have snapped the wood if he breathed wrong. But he left off Kreacher. He went stalking back from whence he'd come, their father's old office and the library. Shacklebolt trailed him with a shrug.

'I'll never complain about family Christmas again,' Charlie Weasley said to Regulus, giving off a noiseless whistle of amazement. 'I about dove for cover there.'

'Give it sufficient time,' Regulus told him shortly, and followed after his brother.

Sirius had sprawled back in their father's creaky old chair, his booted feet propped on the desk and a stack of crumpled parchment. A half dozen empty bottles clattered as he shuffled through them, locating one with a bit of brown liquid still sloshing in the bottom. He drank it straight from the carafe, smearing his mouth across his sleeve after. 'Make free with the place,' he invited his audience. 'You're welcome to whatever you find here. That snivelling idiot out in the hall stashed stuff all over, you'll have to dig out all his little hidey holes; the rest I either turned in to the Aurors or destroyed. You have any idea what it is you're trying to find?'

'Jewellery, maybe, or anything expensive or significant, really, could be an enchanted snuffbox for all we know.' Shacklebolt helped himself to the nearest of the glass curio cabinets, lifting the small brass latch and bending to examine the contents of a shelf. 'Grimoires, that's possible too. Journals. Diaries.'

'I doubt he'd try the diary trick twice, actually,' Remus said. He had ventured in no further than the door, and stood there with his arms crossed tight over his chest, his face turned away so as not to tempt Sirius. 'I think he suspected the diary had grown its own desires and goals. He never wrote it in again after his first kill at the school. So far as I know, it didn't interact with anyone til Narcissa Malfoy gave it to her son.'

'Had myself a bonfire night with all those books anyway,' Sirius mumbled, tilting his head back to catch the last drips of whiskey. He discarded the bottle and located another from a box beneath the desk. 'This is the only really valuable stuff that's left. Dear ole Dad had it stacked dozens deep in the cellar.' He hooked two in a hand and rose, kicking the chair back into place. 'I'd wish you luck, but there's precious little of that going around. Lock up when you leave. Or, better still, don't. Maybe we'll get lucky after all and some chav'll break in to burn the place down.'

'Thanks, Lord Potter,' Shacklebolt called after him, but Sirius didn't acknowledge it. Moments later, the front door slammed shut, and he was gone.

'Right,' Charlie said, shaking it off and rather too obviously turning to Regulus for his lead. 'Describe this Horcrux thing for me again.'

'I really don't remember,' Regulus protested.

'It's all right,' Remus interrupted, flashing a paper-thin smile at him. It faded before it reached his eyes. 'It's not all that likely it's here or ever was. But we have to start somewhere. And the Blacks make as much sense as anything else.'

'Why is that, now?' Charlie asked.

'Tom was in school with several Blacks. He would have crossed paths in Slytherin with Lucretia, Orion, sweet Walburga there, Cygnus too. The Blacks are Pureblood royalty, and rabidly political. Tom didn't measure up, and he was keenly aware of it. He envied them desperately and modelled quite a lot of his more noxious ideals on the Blacks-- Toujours Pur, for instance.' Remus nodded to the tapestry that stretched the length of the walls. 'Always pure.'

'But the horcruxes come in how?'

Remus met Regulus's eyes momentarily. He looked away first. 'When he started getting paranoid, toward the end, Voldemort distributed his horcruxes so he couldn't be so easily defeated. The diary went to the Malfoys. The ring, he hid with the graves of the people he fancied his ancestors. It reasons he'd have looked to his most trusted allies or places of significance to hide the others. I reckon... given how you died... I reckon he hid the locket with you, Reg. Only you got caught trying to destroy it, when you turned on him, and-- well.'

'Then it's reasonable to assume he'd've stashed the real locket somewhere else,' Charlie argued. 'Once he knew Regulus had betrayed him.'

'Regulus, yes. Not the rest of the Blacks. By the '80s they were solidly in his camp. And would've been desperate to keep on his good side.' After a glance at Charlie's sceptical brow, Remus shrugged tensely. 'As I said. It's not at all likely it's here. But it might be. Or clues to where Reg found it or meant to hide it.'

'Split up,' Shacklebolt advised them. 'Just look for anything valuable. And be ready in case anything in the place is cursed, I understand from Sirius he's still finding traps.'

'They should be set to open or de-activate with Black blood,' Regulus said, hunching his own shoulders. 'They should recognise me.'

'All right,' Charlie sighed, surrendering. 'I'll start by finding that elf's burrow. If he really is hiding things away, ten to one he's got the horcrux.'

'I'll start with the attic,' Shacklebolt decided, shaking out a floorplan Sirius had drawn them and scratching his shaved head. 'Sirius found a lot in there in the beginning, he said. Right, lads. Meet up in an hour, say?'

'An hour,' Charlie agreed, and they left, turning in opposite directions from the library.

Remus, however, didn't move from his spot at the door. To Regulus, he said only, 'When did the drinking start?'

Regulus opened his mouth, then closed it carefully. 'I don't know precisely,' he answered softly. 'Before I came back, I think.'

'After I-- wasn't here anymore.' Remus's jaw seemed set as he stared at the tapestry. 'I thought he was going to sell the house.'

'He was. Is.'

'You didn't want it?'

Once, the library had been his favourite room. It had smelled of incense and oil lamps, musty old books, his father's cigars. He'd played under that desk, learnt to read there, side by side with Kreacher tracing his letters amongst the names of his ancestors. 'No,' he said, deliberately not thinking of the memories that followed that brief happy time.

'We should look in the bedrooms,' Remus said, an unsteady beat later.

It was true Sirius had done much to empty out the place. Regulus had declined to accompany his brother on the trip to collect a few papers necessary to register Regulus as (technically) alive. Sirius had offered, then, to cede the Black lordship to Regulus, but he hadn't wanted that, either. Once, he thought, it might have thrilled him, to wear formal robes and sit amongst the peers of Wizarding Britain and feel that he belonged. He didn't, though, not anymore. Not even Kreacher recognised him as heir, hadn't even noticed him standing there just now. The house wasn't his, nor anything in it. Even the past didn't really seem his. It was like walking through a museum full of half-familiar things, but everything that had happened here was dead and gone, as he had been.

'I did that, I think,' Remus said, touching a gouge in the stair rail as they climbed.

'You were here?'

'Once,' Remus confirmed. 'James and I. We broke in, that winter after Sirius was kicked-- er, disinherited.' He wet his lips, fingers lingering on the scratch in the wood. 'We picked a time we were sure your parents would be out. James distracted the elf at the door, pretending to be a Pureblood come calling, and I broke in through the upstairs window on that horrible Cleansweep of James's. Nearly killed myself falling two storeys. We'd just come to get a few of Sirius's things, you know, we wanted to surprise him, his own clothes, his trunk... it was mostly lad mags and Muggle records, of course...'

'Of course,' Regulus echoed.

'Didn't know how long I had, careened down the stairs with the trunk and banged smack off the wall there, was sure the clatter would give me away. James kept your elf talking, though, and I--'

'What?'

Abruptly Remus laughed. It was a sharp-edged sigh more than a chuckle, but this time the smile made it to his eyes, if only for a second. 'I reckon I owe you an apology.'

'For the stairs? I don't mind.'

'No, I... I thought maybe I had long enough, an extra minute or so... I sneaked into the kitchens and, well. I--' Remus bit his lips together against another laugh. 'I, er, I licked every single plate and cup in the cupboards.'

Regulus nearly missed the stair with his foot. 'You what?'

'Didn't have time to do the silver, not that silver's ever much agreed with me.'

He gaped. He knew he did. But the laugh came bubbling up in him. 'Mother would have had it all destroyed and the house exorcised if she'd known.'

'Yeah.' Remus grinned at him through pinkened cheeks. 'You probably ate off one of them or something, though, so-- sorry.'

'Well.' Regulus resumed his climb, putting Lupin at his back. 'Clearly it didn't kill me.'

'Was that an actual sense of humour?' Remus demanded behind him. 'From a  _Black?_ '

'Blame Charlie,' Regulus said. 'I certainly didn't have one before.'

It was a strange thing, to be back in his childhood room. Remus offered to do it for him, but really it was only sensible Regulus would know the nooks and crannies, the private spaces that had once been his. Some things were familiar-- the sight of the doxy-eaten old quilt on his bed flooded him with feeling-- but others might as well have belonged to a stranger. The door to his ensuite stood half-open, and he looked at the flannels hung from the warmer and couldn't recall ever using them. The same with the boar-hair brush which even now had a few strands of dark hair caught in the bristles. The scent of his soap didn't move him. He looked through the drawers of his bureau, looked through the clothes in the cupboard-- it was as if he'd never seen them before. He couldn't remember the boy who'd plodded through life dressed like Edgar Allen Poe, itself a reference no-one in this house would have welcomed or even understood. But the words of Poe's poem came to him unbidden:  _you are not wrong, you who deem that my days have been a dream._

'Nothing unusual in Sirius's room,' Remus reported from behind him. Regulus started, and tried to pretend he'd been busy, taking down a hatbox to peer inside. No hat in it, but toys he must have tried to hide from Mother. They were charred and broken, bits of ash still clinging to them. He hadn't the foggiest idea if he'd done it or if Mother had dashed them into the fire to punish him.

'Did you check under the bed?' he asked.

'The loose board? Yes.'

'No, in the mattress box.'

'Yes.'

'Anything pinned to the bedcurtains?'

'I looked. Nothing.' Remus waited, for more questions perhaps, or perhaps hoping for answers; when he got none he turned away, to stoop over the bedside table and peer through the drawers. A moment later he stopped, chagrined. 'Forgive... I should have asked first.'

'It's all right,' Regulus said truthfully. 'I, er... I don't remember much of this. It's strange, isn't it. Sirius, I remember Sirius. Did you look outside the window? He used to tie things to strings and lower them out the window. Kreacher never checked for that.'

'I'll go back for that. Have you looked out your window yet?'

'No.'

'But those are Sirius's hiding places, not yours. It's yours we're meant to be locating.'

The hatbox full of relics. He didn't remember playing with toys. There'd been a doll, once, he thought he could recall a doll, a sad old thing of rags with a faded drawn-on smile and a single eye of pearl button. It had been Mother's. He'd found it in a crate in the attic and kept it, slept with it every night and hidden it by day so Kreacher wouldn't take it away.

'Do you really think he would have chosen me? The Dark Lord.'

'It's only a bit of logic.' Remus knelt on the floor to feel beneath the bed. 'But yes, I do think so. He always had favourites, we knew that. The youngest, the newest convert. The purest.'

He had the Mark. It was livid black on his corpse-like skin. He loathed the sight of it. He'd considered cutting it out, scraping it off layer by layer to the bone if he had to. Burning it off. Chopping it off, like Severus. He'd thought of little else, night after night. He hadn't done it yet. He didn't know yet who he'd be without it.

'How did they die?'

'Who?'

'My parents.'

Remus slid to the rug, a knee tucked to his chest. He'd found something under the bed after all, a dusty old sock that might have been there twelve years or twelve centuries. 'Your father,' he said slowly, 'he died of liver cancer. I visited his sickroom, once, if you can believe that. I'd always thought of him as, as... not as bad, I suppose. Not like your mother.  When she went a year later, I honestly think most of us at the funeral had come to be sure they'd nailed the coffin shut tight enough. No-one really knew how she'd died, I think. There was speculation for years. Poison. Fed to her by a relative or the house elf or ingested herself some lonely night locked away in here with nothing but her mad thoughts for comfort. Maybe a trip down the stairs-- they had her trussed up in a gown with a yard of lace at the neck, that would have hidden any number of injuries. And who's to know if she was pushed or threw herself? Or hanged herself or put her head in the oven...'

'It wouldn't have been the oven,' Regulus said. 'She'd never once in her life had to use it herself.'

'A very Black sense of humour, if you don't mind the observation.'

'That was the truth.' Regulus took a seat where he stood, putting his back to the cupboard door. 'Mother couldn't bear to be alone. I thought she'd do it when I left for school. She threatened it all the time. She'd write me letters, page after page telling me how she'd do it to make me sorry I'd left her. But she never did.'

'She wasn't your responsibility.'

'Saying it doesn't make it true.'

'Repetition makes for a more convincing argument.'

'How could it have gone so wrong? Everything.'

'It was always going to be what it was,' Remus whispered. 'We were just... pebbles tossed into the river. A ripple. And then the river roared on.'

'Who tossed us then? Who do we blame?'

'Our parents. Voldemort. Dumbledore. God. It doesn't change anything to blame them. We're still here.'

'Then what do we do about it?'

'We bear it,' Remus said.

A clatter on the stairs broke the quiet between them, some unknowable number of minutes later. Charlie poked his head in. 'All right there, mates?' he asked. 'Been about an hour. Meet downstairs?'

'We haven't quite finished looking.' Remus stirred, clearing his throat. 'Give us a mo, please.'

'Right.' Charlie lingered, looking for confirmation, perhaps, from Regulus. Regulus set the lid on the hatbox and put it aside.

'Behind that bit of filigree, there,' Regulus told him, pointing. 'Above the door.'

'What, this?' Charlie came in far enough to see, reached up one broad hand to tug at the plaster rosette. It came loose in one piece, and behind it was a small hollow space. Just big enough for a locket. 'It was there,' Regulus said. 'I hid it there.'

'You remember?'

'I remember. Under the rose.'

'Nothing there now.' Charlie peered on his toes to be sure. 'Any way to tell if it was ever there? Some spell of detection?'

'It was there. I put it there, Christmas day. And I took it out... I took it out to use it.'

'What do you mean, use it?' Remus asked, watching him keenly. 'To use how?'

'I was going to... I was going to take it somewhere,' Regulus said. He didn't remember-- he didn't remember, but he knew, the knowledge creeping back in on the edges. He took the plaster rose from Charlie, turned it over in his hands. He could hardly feel the weight of it.

'You were going to take it to the Chamber.'

'How do you know?'

'Because you died there. It's just-- logic.' Remus came to stand by them, his fingers warm on Regulus's, flinching as they made contact. 'But it's only logic til you remember for sure.'

'I don't know. That part... that part isn't there.'

'It's better than we had til now.' Remus gripped his hands, squeezed tight. 'You did very well.'

'I don't need praise or encouragement,' he snapped, freeing himself and stepping back. 'What I need is to remember, isn't it? And I can't. I can't make it happen on a schedule.'

'We know that, Reg.'

'Don't you think I would if I could?'

'You're doing the best you can,' Charlie said.

'Bloody lot of good that is.' He dashed the rosette to the floorboards. It cracked into shards, chips of white spraying in all directions. Regulus stepped on them on his way out the door.

 

 

 

 

They never did find anything in the house. Kingsley Shacklebolt escorted Remus back to wherever he was in hiding, and Charlie back to Hogwarts. Regulus went home, or what passed for home now, a place that was no more his than Grimmauld Place. He nearly went in from the porch, where Charlie had left him with a promise to check in later by Floo. But something restless was in him, something unsettled, and before he quite acknowledged he meant to he was walking, passing through the yard and the garden and then into the woods beyond, the long downhill trek into the valley.

Dobby found him sitting by a stream, tossing pebbles into the rushing water. He avoided the water, usually. He didn't remember his death, but he didn't particularly want to, either. How the little elf knew where to find him, or how he knew to arrive with a hot water bottle and the scratchiest wool blanket, was a mystery only for house elves. Dobby chattered at him, meaningless phrases that didn't quite resolve the rushing void in his ears, but eventually came to sound less like birdsong and more like words, and the heat on his palms began to register through the numb nerves, the texture of the blanket grounded him. He could almost feel like a human being and not a ghost.

'What if this is all there is?'

Dobby kicked his ankles at the grass. In one of Harry's old tees and a mis-matched pair of socks tucked into trainers with lights in the heels, the greenish tinge of Dobby's bulbous nose was the only thing that immediately marked him as other than a Muggle child. That, and the pair of leather gloves he wore on his long ears.

And, Regulus supposed, he wouldn't have asked that question of a child. But someone who had been a slave, someone who knew what it was to want, need, fight to be free. He could ask that person.

Dobby took his question seriously, at least. He didn't answer right away, his hairless brow contracted to a wrinkle, ears sagging as he thought it over.

'But this is good,' Dobby said at last. 'Isn't it?'

He couldn't take a deep breath, couldn't smell the clean air, the scent of the trees. But he could feel the grass between his fingers, feel the breeze on his cheek. Could see all the way to the mountains limned bright with sunshine, could see the reddish tinge of leaves welcoming autumn. Even the river was beautiful, in its way, a living thing, carrying on no matter what fell into it.

'Will you teach me to use the oven?'

'If Mister Black wants something, Dobby can cook for him.'

'Mister Black wants to learn to cook for himself.'

'But Mister Black does not eat,' Dobby pointed out, frowning over this puzzle.

'You and Da will eat. If I don't burn it.'

Dobby nodded dubiously, but he'd had stranger requests in the Black-Potter household. 'Biscuits,' he decided then. 'For Mister Da. Ginger biscuits. Very easy,' he added earnestly. 'Almost impossible to destroy.'

'Never say never.'

'Humans is very strange.'

'Yes,' Regulus agreed, hugging the hot water bottle to his chest. 'Yes, they are.'

 

 

**

 

 

'Potter, remain after class,' Severus said.

The boy would not disobey. But he didn't have to be happy about it, and he didn't pretend otherwise. He sat stony-faced as his peers packed up their lab tables, toddled off with their cauldrons swinging and their grating cheerfulness restored by the promise of a weekend. Much to Severus's dismay, he was beginning to see signs of integration between the populations of the various schools. Dumbledore would be overjoyed at this sign of success. Severus would be obliged to eat a little crow, no doubt.

Well. There was still plenty of time for something to go wrong.

Like this sullen little thundercloud that threatened to spill overboard at any moment. Potter was a wan, underfed thing these days, and Severus didn't have to look hard to see new smudges beneath the boy's overly sunken eyes. He had also espied something else, however, and meant to root out the truth, since Potter wasn't in a trusting mood these days.

When the Potions classroom had emptied, Severus returned to his desk at front, and seated himself. 'Up here,' he beckoned Potter. The boy looked away, obviously tempted, for a moment at least, to test his teacher's tolerance, but thankfully, wisely, opted to do as he was told. With dragging feet Potter slouched his way to stand in front of the desk. His head was not bowed. Once, that would have infuriated Severus. Now he looked on it with a little hope.

'The chain about your neck,' he said.

Potter's cheeks thinned. 'Yes, sir.'

'Don't "sir" me. What is it?'

Potter didn't lie. Say that for the boy. He stood there clearly evaluating what to say, and not making a decision very quickly, but at least he didn't lie. 'It's borrowed,' he said at last.

Severus put out his hand. 'Let me see it.'

Potter resisted, darting a dark look at him. 'Why?'

'Why, sir.'

'You just told me not to "sir" you.'

No, in many ways Potter was nothing like his loathsome father, but he was plenty annoying in his own unique way. 'Give it here, Potter, and if I have to ask again there will be consequences.'

'Fine.' Potter unstrung the chain, tugging it out of his shirt collar, and flung it to the desk.

'Aha,' Severus said, or started to say, grabbing up the charm to hold it to the light of his desk lamp. But it was not, as he'd been sure, the timeturner Granger had been granted by special dispensation and which Severus suspected Potter of using, whether the girl knew she was sharing her privilege or not. No, this was a locket, an antique looking piece with a tarnished face and no particularly distinctive marks. 'What is this?'

'Regulus gave it to me.'

'I thought it was borrowed.'

'It's his, but he gave it to me in case I need it.'

'Why would you need it?'

'He had a feeling, he said.'

'A feeling.'

'Yeah, a feeling,' Potter said, exasperated.

'You weren't wearing it before.'

'I've only just started wearing these knickers too, want me to account for that?'

'Tone,' Severus informed him icily. Potter's jaws snapped shut, his lips pressed thin and white together. 'Why are you so--'

'What,' Potter muttered, staring over his head at the blackboard.

'Angry. What have I done to offend you?'

Potter's eyes dropped to his. And held them, blazing green behind the gold rim of his lenses. 'What have you done,' Potter repeated flatly.

'Our relationship is...' He cast about for the proper word. 'Clearly you feel-- a great deal. I don't pretend to understand it. I need you to tell me.'

That stubborn jaw was only growing granite the longer Potter glared at him. 'I already have to talk to Umbridge,' Potter said between clenched teeth. 'I'm not talking to you too.'

'I could protect you from Umbridge.'

'I know,' Potter said. 'But you aren't.'

He was floundering. He did not like it. 'I am seeking to understand you. I truly wish to understand you. But I can't unless you help me.'

'Maybe I'm tired of helping other people all the time!'

'No,' he said, certain of this much. 'That is the one thing I fear you are not.'

Potter ran a hand through his already well-mussed hair. 'Why did you believe Umbridge, when she said those things about me?'

Getting somewhere at last. 'I did not believe her,' he informed the boy, gratified to see Potter's eyes widen as the magnitude of his misunderstanding dawned on him.

But then Potter's eyes narrowed just as quickly. 'Then why didn't you stick up for me?'

'What good would it have done? There was sufficient ambiguity--'

'Ambi-what?'

'Ambiguity. Sufficient uncertainty. Umbridge played her hand well and for me to argue in that moment would have been useless.'

'Not to me!'

Severus shook his head. 'You are Slytherin enough to understand me, child.'

'This isn't Slytherins and Gryffindors. You think I didn't want to hear you say you believed me?'

'Then I've said it now,' he pointed out, exasperated himself. 'I don't believe you are hurting yourself, I do believe Umbridge was simply making a play to get her tentacles latched onto you, and I absolutely believe your guardian is a fool for believing anything spoken by that fork-tongued so-called woman. Are we quits now?'

Potter thrust out a hand. Severus put the locket in it. Potter stalked away from the desk, snatching up his book bag as he passed his table, and very pointedly did not slam the door on his way out. Severus ground his teeth.

 

 

 

'Ah, Professor Snape,' Bartemius Crouch greeted him.

'Good evening,' Severus said shortly, attempting to pass him by without inviting further discussion. It was, of course, futile. Hogwarts had a hundred corridors and yet only this one was guaranteed to have a Severus Snape in it, escaping from a long day in the classroom to what promised to be a longer night alone before the fire, wishing for wisdom at the bottom of the wine bottle.

'I wondered if I might have a moment?'

Severus slowed, cursing himself. He could say no, and Crouch would probably not force him. But that would invite greater scrutiny, and he had no desire to spend the rest of the Tournament fending off suspicions that could be easily laid to rest if he only cooperated a bit in the beginning. He managed a reasonably pleasant grimace, and gestured ahead of him.

'My office is just this next door, Mr Crouch, if you'd like.'

'Perfect. Thank you.'

It was rare enough to have visitors in his office. Children came in only occasionally, as he preferred detentions and consultations alike to take place in the classroom where he didn't have the added burden of little snits imposing on his space. More frequently, he met with his fellow professors here, especially the other Heads. Most frequent of all was Albus Dumbledore, who never came uninvited and had always been clear that he considered this room as inviolate as Severus's person, whether sanctum or prison. By the mood, it might be either. As Severus swished his wand at the kettle first and the lamps next, throwing light on the face of the man who had once tried very hard to imprison him after the war, Severus had a hunch he wouldn't find much pleasure in this space in future.

'Seat yourself,' he said, levitating a pile of books from the couch along the wall and moving them deliberately to the chair before his desk. He wouldn't have another stand-off, especially one in which he wasn't guaranteed to win by virtue of age and position.

Crouch took the hint well enough, seating himself with a grunt and tipping his hat and gloves onto the cushion beside him. 'Thanks, yes,' he agreed, when Severus indicated the kettle. 'Milk, no sugar, please.'

There was no possible reply that was not sarcastic. Severus spared them both. When the tea was ready, he delivered it by magic, and took the wingback by the unlit hearth for himself, settling deep into the leather and preparing himself for whatever might come. More accusations. Feeling him out for any remaining guilt over the Chamber of Secrets affair-- once a lawman, always a lawman, after all. Crouch had wanted him in Azkaban once and would only feel his instinct validated now.

'I'd like to have a little chat about Harry Potter,' Crouch said.

That followed, yes. Crouch would naturally have an interest; every Ministry official would want a claim in that corner. 'I'm afraid I know rather less than I thought I did,' Severus told him dryly, and sipped his own tea, wishing it were a cup of something stronger.

'Teenagers,' Crouch murmured wisely. 'My own son had a phase like that.'

The mention of Barty Crouch Jr threw him for a jolt. He could think of nothing appropriate, and so held his tongue. Crouch crossed his legs and relaxed back into the couch, watching Severus squirm. Oh, yes. This was most definitely an interrogation.

'Now what,' Crouch said finally, when the silence was taut and sharp-edged, 'must we make of young Mr Potter? Fascinating little chap, isn't he. No real understanding of the Wizarding World, that's obvious enough, but rather charming, I find. We're a stodgy bunch, wizards, and I don't much mind a good spring cleaning, so to speak. We could do with having some old attitudes challenged, some old biases confronted. But ignorance won't spare him the politics. He'll be used by someone with an agenda he won't understand, and that could be tragic indeed.'

'Tragic,' Severus echoed.

'On the third hand, sometimes it's in the failure that we learn best for ourselves. Learn the most about ourselves.'

'One could wish to spare a child that kind of failure.'

'So one could. But one can also acknowledge the futility of that with this particular child. Harry Potter is and will always be a target.'

'Not always,' Severus said. 'He will win. I believe in him.'

Crouch acknowledged that with a sober nod. 'And when he does, I'll dance a jig. But that's just the Dark Lord and his people. There will be plenty without a Mark who will be waiting in queue when You Know Who falls.'

'So why come to me? To suss me out? I want nothing from him.'

'Oh, I think we both know that's not true, Professor Snape.'

Severus set his cup very precisely back in its saucer. 'I want nothing... nothing he is unwilling... I want to give to him, not take from him.'

'I think you believe that.'

'It is owed.'

'That,' Crouch observed, 'is the truest thing you've said yet. So. You want to return the protection and favour he has given you, and I want someone at his side who will be there through thin as well as thick. Can we come to an accord?'

'Why would you trust me?'

'I don't trust you further than I could lob you with my bad arm, Snape. But pickings are slim and you have the necessary qualifications. Let us talk terms.'

He thrust himself to his feet. 'I don't need to be bribed to keep watch on the boy.'

'No, you do not. In fact, I'd say you have the opposite problem. You can't keep watch if he won't have you near him, however desperately you wish it were otherwise.'

'You cannot possibly--'

'As I said, I had a teenaged boy once, and I have exquisite recall how pig-headed they can be when they believe themselves to be wronged. But, as it happens, I also recall how to get back into a teenaged boy's good graces. For the price of a little pride, you could bend that stern neck and be back in his life.'

'Where I can better report on him to you? He would hardly thank me for it.'

'I don't need a spy. What I  _want_ is a protector. A man with a wand who isn't afraid to get between the boy and his enemies.'

'You have Aurors for that.'

'Had. My superiors saw fit to demote me and though I have friends enough in high places still, you're not wrong about that, I didn't get as far as I did by spending such currency with profligacy. But I'm no Dumbledore. I didn't build a secret coterie of young people to fulfil my every need. Perhaps I ought to have done, and perhaps the world would be ordered more to my liking if I had done. But a man makes do. So tell me if we have terms, Professor Snape, and I'll leave you to your evening.'

Severus drew a finger along the mantel. No dust, the elves of Hogwarts would of course see to that, but it was a neglected thing, bare of photographs or trophies or trinkets that most people accumulated throughout life. He'd had one of Lily, once. It had long since gone into a trunk wrapped in a bit of black velvet, where he wouldn't have to mourn it with every stolen glance.

He had once entertained, for a few sick seconds, the thought of putting one of her son there to replace it. And damned himself for a fool. He'd got very drunk that night, and refused himself a hangover cure in punishment. Of all the ridiculous imaginings.

'You go to an awful lot of trouble, Mr Crouch, for a boy of no relation to you.'

'No relation, no. But I like the boy. Call it-- doing my part.' Crouch emptied his tea, and stood, donning his cap and gloves. 'Or say it's owed,' he said softly. 'I failed his mother. I won't fail him.'

'What-- what do I say to him? He--' Severus swallowed hard. Pride tended to stick on one's craw. 'He hates me.'

'You apologise, you tell him he was right all along, and you listen when he tells you why you hurt him. Don't argue with him, for damn sure don't tell him he's wrong, and when he's ready to come back you let him in without a word about it.'

'I just tried that this very afternoon and he brushed me aside like so much--'

'Did you try it? Or did you expect him to understand and fault him when he didn't?'

'How am I to educate him if he's never to be confronted with the truth?'

'How are you to educate him if he never speaks to you again?' Crouch returned immediately. Severus sneered at the mantel, digging his fingernails into the wood. 'He's got good instincts. What he needs is good allies. Be that, and he'll come round.'

'I have already proven myself. I shouldn't have to do so again.'

'I'm sure he thinks the same about you.' Crouch let himself out at the door. 'Have someone in to spruce up the place, will you? It's dismal in here. Looks like a bloody dungeon.'

'Ha very ha,' Severus muttered, and went to dig out the whiskey for his tea.


	11. Nightmare In Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which Our Fears Find Us When Least Expected._

'I am glad I got to meet a goblin,' Viktor said consideringly. He stretched long arms high over his head, then flattened his palms to the ground without so much as a slight bend in his bowlegged knees. Harry's fingers brushed the dewy grass, but no further.

'I think Mr Griphook liked meeting all of you,' Harry answered. He'd been rather proud of himself, as it happened, for thinking of writing to the goblin manager of Gringott's Bank. Griphook had seemed quite pleased with the invitation to participate in Harry's lecture to the visiting Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students and had done most of Harry's work for him, even better. He'd brought some historic as well as current specie for everyone to look at, given a detailed overview of Wizarding Britain's economy and monetary policy, and patiently answered questions about the fraught history of goblin-and-wizard relations which had led to Britain's unusual business arrangement. He had been less patient with a few questions which verged too near the arrogance of wizards who assumed they were the superior species in that arrangement. Harry quite agreed. He'd pointed out to their audience that none of their wizarding schools taught maths, which Muggles did to quite advanced levels, and so if goblins were going to put in the extra learning and work harder than wizards at such a complex topic wasn't it cleverer to have the experts in charge? Griphook had laughed at this. It had sounded a bit like a saw attacking a thick tree. Several students had been quite discomfitted by it.

'Potter, you haff to wear the sword everywhere?' Rolvsson asked. He was jogging in place, golden skin gleaming over many, many muscles. Despite the ungodly hour, this daily performance had attracted a small but dedicated crowd of girls. It was one of the few things which had united all four Houses of Hogwarts.

Harry, like the other Durmstrang students who gathered on the grounds at five every morning to run with Igor Karkaroff barking derogatory insults at their backs, wore a brief pair of shorts and a sleeveless vest. He did not attract a crowd of admiring girls. He was too skinny, Hermione had told him, and too speccy, Fred and George had both confirmed. Ron thought the sword was wicked cool and made up for Harry's other deficiencies. Harry thought he had other things to worry about than looking cool, not least of which was that he had forgot to send his laundry to the elves and his running clothes were exceedingly smelly, which wasn't likely to help with the cool factor.

'I used to try and leave it at home or in my dorm,' Harry explained to Rolvsson. 'But it rather has a mind of its own.'

'Does it fly?'

'Not really? I guess I'm not totally sure how it does it. It just shows up.'

'Does it have a name?' asked Danika Bohn. She was one of the few Durmstrang girls who made a habit of talking directly to Harry, at least once her sponsor had approved it. The girls did not run in shorts and vests, of course-- they had much more concealing track suits that zipped to their chins. Harry envied them. It was getting too cold out to be wearing such skimpy clothes so early in the morning.

'The sword?' Harry reached over his shoulder and gripped the hilt. 'Umm, I'm not sure? It was Godric Gryffindor's but maybe also not? Mr Griphook said it was made by goblins a long time ago, but Dumbledore, er, the Headmaster, he said once it was possible it had been made by this old Roman emperor or a Welsh blacksmith, I don't really know much about that time of history, it might also have been King Arthur's but maybe Godric Gryffindor was somehow King Arthur? If it was King Arthur's, it's got a name, he called his sword Excalibur. But if it's not then obviously it's not named that.'

Silence met Harry's admittedly rambling reply. Viktor lifted a shoulder at him, indicating, apologetically, complete incomprehension.

'So... no,' Harry said. 'No name.'

'All great weapons have names,' Danika disapproved. 'The Frost Fair Blade-- it was so deadly that all the blood would freeze into frost on the blade. Thor's hammer Mjölnir! That's a good one. The Mech-kladenets and the mech-samosek-- the Self-Swung Sword. Oh, Beowulf carried Hrunting and Nægling. Two swords.'

'How did he carry two swords? What a bother.'

'Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegar,' said Atash Alizada. 'Any wound from this sword could only be treated by a special potion made from demon's brains.'

'Reckon that would be hard to pick up at Diagon Alley,' Harry muttered, stretching.

'Skofnung, it was imbued with the spirits of twelve berserker bodyguards of King Hrólf Kraki.'

'Oh, Sharur,' contributed Bas Van Donk. 'It was a talking mace. Sumerian.'

'There's like a million famous weapons in India, I think,' Harry tried. 'Parvati Patil told me about them last year. It's a really,  _really_ long list. I think a lot of them were probably stolen by British colonists.'

'You should name your sword.'

'Only I'm not really sure it's mine?' Harry wiggled his toes in his trainers. 'I think it's more like I'm it's.'

'Enough lazing about!' It was Karkaroff, making his appearance precisely at the hour and glowering from his perch. Karkaroff did not run. He floated on a small carpet, his fur cape billowing majestically behind him. He looked just like Jafar in Aladdin, a movie Harry had seen with Hermione in London over the summer. It was extremely cool. 'Fall in order!' Karkaroff ordered them at a bellow. 'Ten laps about the castle, you dogs!'

And so it began. Harry made no effort to keep to the front of the formation-- that was all older students who had the longest legs. Viktor generally kept pace with Harry for the first few laps, til they were properly warmed up, and then he'd work his way to the front so he could finish strong. Harry didn't have to impress anyone like that, so he contented himself with just keeping up. All his running after Luna had upped his endurance, and he was quite proud of himself for managing that much. The Durmstrang contingent were athletic in the extreme. Even the girls outpaced Harry by a considerable distance.

As they completed their third lap Viktor gave Harry the nod, and began to outpace him. Harry waved him off, puffing slightly. Hogwarts had a lot of hills. He didn't remember finding it so problematic during the melee, but he supposed they'd been moving rather slowly what with all the fighting. Also a lot of rocks. He came close to turning his ankle a few times. He waved at Hagrid as he passed by the Gamekeeper's Hut. Hagrid was out with Fang, who barked a greeting without pausing his morning business of sniffing for any new smells that might have arrived during the night and planting some scents of his own. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the horizon over the mountains. It was pinkish and a little orangeish and really quite pretty. And the sound of all the insects and the birds chirping whatever birds chirped; probably not all birds were as clever as Fawkes, although people who had owls liked them well enough. Harry hadn't talked to any owls yet. Maybe he should try some time. Now he thought of it, it would probably be a good topic for the TWATs to cover in lectures with the visiting students, he didn't think other countries used owls for delivering post. Did Britain have an unusually large owl population, was that why wizards here had started using them? He thought--

The flutter of wings startled him off the path. Cautiously he ventured off the packed dirt of the path and down the slope under the bridge. Plaintive caws. It was a bird, trapped by a bit of rubbish and wire. 'Shhh,' Harry urged it, sinking to his knees in the damp grass. He reached slowly, letting the bird eye him from both sides of its narrow head. It was black and sleek, largeish like Fawkes. A raven, he thought. 'Shhh. I'm going to help you. Please don't peck me, I'm just going to try to unwrap this wire from your leg.' He paused as the bird twitched, wings flapping madly, let it calm again. 'That's good, boy. Er, girl, maybe. Shhh, just hold still now...'

'Crrrruk,' the bird said, craning its neck to look up at him. Harry smiled at it, and touched the wire.

And couldn't let it go. He felt a jerk somewhere in the pit of his stomach, a rushing howl filled his ears, and everything went sideways and upside down and whirling and then he was being hurled to the forest floor in a sprawl of limbs.

Forest. He was in a forest, and nothing was in sight but trees in all directions. The castle was completely gone.

_'Stupefy!'_

Harry just had time to see the charm flying at him. It blasted through his hasty shield, knocking him flat, and then all was darkness.

 

 

**

 

 

Slap. Slap. 'Wakey, wakey, Potter.' Slap.

The impact of a rough hand on his cheek jolted him out of unconsciousness. He opened his eyes on a blurry world-- his glasses were gone. The last slap knocked his head to the side, and he saw a smokey fire burning under a black blob that had to be a cauldron hanging from an uneven tripod. Someone crouched beside the cauldron, adding ingredients and stirring-- Harry had the impression of light hair, pale eyes-- but then the hulking form crouched over Harry became a much more pressing issue. Fingers grabbed at Harry's neck and squeezed.

He fought. He'd fought for his life before, but never like this, feeling it smothered out of him as the pressure at his neck grew and grew and grew. His lungs were starved for air and his mind was all panic, his legs kicking and his hands clawing futilely at the leering grin above him. Stars were bursting in his eyes when a last trickle of sense asserted itself, and he threw all the strength left in him in a blast of pure magic.

The man strangling him was hurled back as if by an immense force. He cratered over the cauldron and was roundly cursed by his companion, who doused the flames catching at their cloaks with water sprayed from a wand and came pounding to where Harry lay, breathless and too weakened to defend himself. A hand grabbed him by the hair, and he was dragged across the forest mulch, scrambling crablike on all fours to alleviate the pain in his scalp. He couldn't get to his feet, couldn't do anything to stop the man who yanked him cruelly about, and then all suddenly it was over, he was being hauled upright and flung at a figure emerging from the trees. Strong arms held him up and entrapped him there, hands grasping his wrists tightly and holding him just high enough that his toes couldn't get purchase on the ground. 'Be still,' he was warned. 'What happened to the potion, you bungling fools?'

'Greyback there couldn't resist playing with his food, that's what,' snarled the light-haired one. 'Great bumbling idiot! We'll have to begin again.'

Greyback. Harry's brain skittered from thought to thought, unable to linger, but it came to him he knew that name. He knew that name somehow.

'Then begin again, and be quick about it,' said the man holding Harry. 'He'll be noticed missing eventually.' Gloved fingers at Harry's chin made him flinch, and it was all too easy for the man to take him by the jaw and tilt his head up til his eyes connected with icy blue looking back down at him. 'Behave,' Mr Malfoy told Harry. 'And you'll make it out of this alive and whole.'

Harry's mouth had gone too dry to speak. He nodded, or as much as he could manage with Mr Malfoy holding his head like that. He let himself be carried, not that he had much choice, and Mr Malfoy let him go at last. Harry crashed to his knees and stayed where he'd been dropped, shaking with the cold, paralysing cold that wouldn't let his limbs obey. When Malfoy removed his thick black cloak and draped it about Harry's shoulders, Harry huddled in its warmth.

'Good boy,' Malfoy said, and turned his attention to righting the cauldron and drying out the fire pit. At a word and a gesture from Malfoy's wand, a flame lit in the pile of sticks, hissing as it caught and spread. 'Where's Pettigrew?'

'I'm here.' Harry jerked back as footsteps alerted him, too late, to the presence of another man coming from the trees. A hand on his shoulder jumpstarted his staggering heartbeat, and it was all he could do to keep himself from a rash move-- running away, or fighting back. Instead he only glared defiantly as Pettigrew looked him over. 'Are you all right, Harry?' Pettigrew asked him, sounding genuinely concerned.

Harry didn't believe it for a minute. He only pulled Mr Malfoy's cape tighter about his shoulders with trembling hands. Pettigrew sighed, and rose again. He walked past Harry to the fire, and tossed a bundle of fresh picked plants at the light-haired man. 'Asphodel, grown from unmarked graves. Why haven't you finished that yet? You've barely begun!'

'A momentary setback,' Mr Malfoy said. 'Soon to be rectified, isn't that correct, Barty?'

The light-haired one now pouring something from a flask into the cauldron sneered up at his companions. 'If you think you can do better, Malfoy, feel free to get your manicured hands dirty.'

'I'll save them for cleaning up after you. Again.'

'Enough,' Pettigrew interrupted. 'Greyback, make yourself useful. You're only here to do one thing, and you had best do it well, if you know what's good for you. Lord Riddle--'

'I know better than you what Lord Riddle wants,' Greyback growled. He aimed a kick at Harry with his muddy boot, and Harry wasn't quick enough getting out of its path. He curled about the explosion of hurt in his ribs, only vaguely aware of the wary repositioning of men above his head. Malfoy had his wand drawn and aimed at Greyback's chest, and Pettigrew was even more direct, stepping in close to Greyback with his wand crammed to Greyback's unprotected nethers. They bared teeth at each other, the hulking heavy-shouldered man and the balding rat who grinned a dare at him.

'If you didn't come back with all your bits I doubt Lord Riddle would mind overmuch,' Pettigrew warned him softly. 'It's my tolerance you should worry about, and it's been sorely tested.'

'I'm not afraid of you,' Greyback boasted, his big dirty hands clenching into massive fists at his sides as if he longed to knock Pettigrew flat and pound his face in.

'That's because you're a stupid, stupid man,' Pettigrew said, and at that put up his wand and stepped back. 'Moony was worth a dozen of you,' he added contemptuously, and turned his back on the fuming werewolf.

Werewolf. That was where Harry had heard the name before. Fenrir Greyback was the werewolf who had turned Remus. And he was stood only feet from Harry, and from Harry's sudden fury.

'Are you all right?' Pettigrew was asking again. He knelt at Harry's side, attempting to peel back the thick cloak, but Harry angled a shoulder at him and squirmed away, and Pettigrew let him go with a sigh. 'I'm sorry about this, Harry,' he said sadly. 'If it weren't necessary, I wouldn't have brought you into this at all. After today, maybe I can keep you out of it. I'm sure you won't believe me, but I do regret it. I regret... many things.'

'Like betraying my parents?' Harry croaked. His swollen throat was too sore to more than aspirate the words, but Pettigrew looked stricken. He sat back on his heels, his sallow cheeks flushed red, his lips pressed tight together.

'It was necessary,' he whispered, and stood up and away. He joined the one he'd called Barty over the cauldron, and helped him sort through a chest of phials and parchment packets of potions ingredients. 'Greyback,' he said over his shoulder, 'do it now. And carefully.'

Greyback glowered at Harry, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim. He thrust aside his long wool coat, baring a belt with a large dagger sheathed at his hip. He drew it slowly, deliberately dragging the blade against the leather to elicit a chilling hiss. 'Just a bit of flesh'll do, lovey,' he said, licking his lips in anticipation. 'Maybe a finger... an ear...'

'What are you doing?' Harry tried, but the words died out in a cough. He crawled back as Greyback came toward him, til he bumped into Malfoy's legs behind him. He rid himself of the cloak off one side, freeing his bare arm, and inside the folds of wool that remained reached for-- but his harness had gone, vanished somewhere in all the confusion, his wand and sword with it. Sword. He could have cried out his relief of not for his throat. He wrapped his hands double about the hilt of the sword that had appeared there when he wished for it. It vibrated eagerly against his palms, ready and willing.

'Reuniting the pieces once scattered and lost,' Pettigrew told him, shredding flowers from the asphodel vines into the cauldron. 'The sooner done the better for all.'

'Pieces? Stay back,' he warned Greyback, as the werewolf kicked sludge and leaves out of his path and came relentlessly on toward Harry. Harry glanced high over his shoulder, and found Malfoy looking down at him. Malfoy held his eyes long enough to nod. Harry swallowed hard.

'I'm sorry, Harry,' Pettigrew said, head low. He stirred the potion, and it began to steam and bubble in the cauldron. 'Truly.'

No more time for questions. Greyback snatched for him, the dagger slashing down, and Harry threw off the rest of the cloak and swung the sword with all his might. The blade cleaved up through the air, and Greyback reared away with a gurgling yell, red spraying from the huge rent that opened up in his chest. Harry followed the momentum of his strike to his feet and whirled on Malfoy, hesitating just a moment before he struck out. Malfoy went down with a cry, clutching his side as blood bloomed there, his wand tumbling unused to the grass.

 _'Stupefy!'_ Barty shrieked, but Harry was ready, and deflected the spell with the sword.  _'Avada--'_

'Stop, you fool!' Pettigrew bowled Barty over from the side. 'We need him alive!'

Harry didn't wait for them to sort it out. He ran. He dodged a curse that blasted at the limbs of trees just above his head, twigs scratching at his back as whole branches crashed behind him, but he didn't let it slow him down. He had no idea where he was or where to run to, and without his glasses he tripped near as often as he stepped well, but on and on he hurtled, til he'd left the sound of their shouts behind him and only the crazed thunder of his own heartbeat kept him company. 'Where,' he gasped to the sword, and it jumped in his hand, tugging him to the right. Without question he followed its lead-- a slight left there around a copse of dense trees, circling round a large boulder into a small glen, descending into a ravine of ancient moss-covered stone and then climbing out of it to find himself on something of a cliff, with a view over a long stretch of forest which ended on green lawns and a castle. Harry stared at it, his stomach twisting. Close enough to see it there, but he could be hours traversing that much forest, and they could find him at any moment.

'Hold!'

Harry jumped. He had only a glimpse of figures climbing overtop the rocky outcrop to either side of the ravine, coming to a spreadhead where Harry now stood. He didn't think; just moved. He was over the edge of the cliff in a leap, and then he was rolling, tumbling, unable to stop himself. He did the only thing he could think of to save his own life-- he let go the sword before he could spit himself on its deadly length, and then he was skidding down a long slope of loose pebbles amidst a shower of reddish dirt, and then suddenly he was in freefall, and only a wild grab stopped him--

He hit the cliffside and scrabbled against it with his trainers seeking any kind of toe-hold, his free hand reaching and reaching til he found something else to hold. A root. It was brittle and gave too much with his weight, but it gave him just long enough to find purchase with his feet on something below, and he hung suspended there trying to catch his breath and think. He needed-- he needed-- he needed to get back up over the ledge, he needed-- help--

'Take my hand, boy!'

'No,' he ground out. The root in his left hand was going to give. He had grit in his eyes and was too teary to see well, too afraid that if he let go he wouldn't find another grip before he fell. He could feel the dirt crumbling beneath his shoe. One way or another, he would fall. He tried to pull himself up, muscles screaming, and achieved nothing but a rain of dust and dry leaves loosened from the cliff. He clung as hard as he could, coughing, dreading.

'Reach up, child.'

'I'd rather die,' he gasped. 'Don't touch me!'

They didn't listen, and there wasn't much Harry could do to stop them. A hand grabbed his forearm and pulled, and it was too late to let himself go and plunge to his death, though he tried. For a sickening minute he swung dangling by one arm, the world all too far below lurching in and out of his vision as he banged and slid against the cliffside. But then he was being hauled up, an inch at a time and then all in a great heave, and he cleared the edge and was dragged safely away from it into a pratfall flat on his face. He laid where he was, aching all over, shivering uncontrollably in the cold, waiting for whatever they were going to do to him next.

But they did nothing. He could hear them all standing about, feet shuffling in the dirt, but none came near him. So he gathered himself up, gulping in deep breaths for his fading strength, and he made it to his hands and knees. He staggered upright, and faced them.

A herd of centaurs stood there watching him, not a crowd of Death Eaters. The one in the lead, who must have helped him off the cliff, held his sword.

'Oh,' Harry said. 'I... thought you were... someone else.'

'Your kind are not welcome in our territory,' the one with the sword informed him. 'This is a violation of the treaty.'

'T-treaty?'

'For many hundreds of your years.' She-- Harry thought it was a girl, woman, though she wore leather armour over her human half and her arms were as rippling with muscles as Rolvsson's. She regarded him with cold detachment, clearly evaluating him and coming up with an unimpressive total. 'Where did you get this weapon?'

'It's mine,' Harry said, and coughed again. His throat hurt terribly. All his hurts were separating out now that the cloud of panic was fading. His palms were shredded and bleeding, his knees and elbows scraped raw, little stings of scratches and the bruises on his ribs throbbing. And he was horribly cold. The wind was cutting, up here, and his running clothes were no protection at all as the adrenaline of fight and flight faded and left him quaking like a leaf. 'I'll leave. Give me the sword and I'll leave.'

'This weapon is not yours.'

'It is. I got it last year. Out of a hat.' Harry winced at himself. 'It's Godric Gryffindor's, his hat gave it to me to use.'

'We know this Gryffindor,' the woman said. Her eyes had narrowed. She had very pretty brown eyes, with very long lashes that never blinked though her long chocolate tail twitched in agitation. 'I did not think humans were so long-lived.'

'No, he's dead. His, er, his hat's still around.' He gingerly wrapped his arms about himself. 'Just give it back and I'll go.'

She seemed to come to some decision. Abruptly, she extended the sword, hilt first, the blade laid along her arm. Harry stepped nearer, half certain she would yank it away and laugh at him, but she let him take it. The point dipped to the ground before he could stop it, his arms too weak for its weight.

'Thank you,' he rasped.

'Why were you running?'

'There are people back there. They wanted to hurt me.'

'It is true there are people, Sioned,' said one of the others gathered round them. She was older, grey-haired, with a fearsome scar that had left her one-eyed. She did not look on Harry with any particularly maternal feeling, that was clear.

'Death Eaters,' Harry said. 'Do you know what those are? They followed Voldemort.'

It was a curious thing. When he said that name in front of wizards and witches, they almost universally reacted as if he'd blared a horn directly in their ears. The centaurs reacted, too, but not with fear. Not a few of them reached for their weapons, bows and long knives appearing in fists. A growl seemed to rise up from somewhere, animalistic and yet driven by a very human kind of rage.

'We know that name,' Sioned said through gritted teeth. She spat on the ground. 'He came to us many years ago. He claimed our territory and offered it back to us from his hand. He wanted us to fight for him. To kill for him.'

'He's a coward,' Harry said, suddenly weary beyond belief. 'And a madman. He's no-one's friend. He would have turned on you, someday.'

'So we thought as well.' She turned her head first to one side and then the other, rather horse-like, though her upper half was wholly human. 'Where did you come upon his men?'

'Where?' he asked the sword, for his sense of direction was completely destroyed. The point lifted, tugging toward his right. 'That way,' Harry verbalised, pointing so all of them could see which he meant. 'Only I don't know how far I ran from them. It felt like a long time, but I... I don't...' To his horror, his eyes wanted to fill with tears. Ruthlessly he suppressed it. 'I don't know how far it was.'

'Hypatia, Xanthippe, and Rúna,' she called, and three of the centaurs came forward, bowing at the waist. 'Lead the hunting party. Any of these Death Eaters on our lands should be run off. Do not fear to kill them if they do not go willingly. Boy.'

'Harry,' Harry introduced himself belatedly. 'My name is Harry Potter.'

Sioned inclined her head to this. 'I will escort you to human lands. Where you go from there is up to you. Do not mistake this generosity for an invitation to trespass again.'

'Yes, ma'am. Er-- no. I won't.'

'Can you walk?'

He tried to swallow. It hurt. 'I'll walk.'

'Not very far, I imagine,' she said dryly. 'That stump there. Climb it.' She trotted toward it, and Harry limped in her wake, unsure what she meant for him to do til he'd clawed his way up the stump and stood atop it, eyes now level with hers. 'Mount,' she instructed him.

'Er,' said Harry. 'Mount... you?'

'I'll swear you to secrecy before I return you to the humans. That should salve both our dignities.'

He thought that might be a joke. Then thought he might be delusional. He'd wake up in bed, this would all be a crazy dream, and it would at least be over. 'Yes, ma'am,' he found it safe to say, and took the arm she extended, clasping it carefully, and climbed across her horse-like back. He'd never ridden a horse before, much less without a saddle, but found if he could grip a bit with his legs and hold onto the strap of her quiver full of menacingly long arrows he might stay atop her and not humiliate himself by falling off. She didn't give him long to settle in. The moment he stilled, she was moving, whirling about and trotting for the forest.

Though all he was doing was sitting, it was hardly restful. He couldn't really keep the sword across his lap, being bounced about as he was, and he quickly determined he needed both hands to keep a good grip on Sioned. Between that and her long ponytail slapping him in the face every few minutes it was a damned uncomfortable ride. But his exhaustion caught up with him, and a kind of numbness took over his mind. It could have been five minutes or five hours, and he wouldn't have known the difference. All the forest looked the same, and she certainly didn't attempt to orientate him, except for one long strained minute when she came to an abrupt halt, alert and reaching for an arrow, though she never drew it.

'What?' Harry asked her.

'The spider-beasts,' she said. 'They leave their nest to hunt. They must have scented the humans too.'

Harry shuddered. He didn't know what a spider-beast was, but he was glad he'd met centaurs instead of those.

'We'll keep upwind,' Sioned said, and took off at a gallop.

But after that it was just a long journey, and his head began to droop. He tried to keep his eyes open, sure she would find him falling asleep on her unforgivably rude and would promptly drop him on his bum to find his own way home, but there was no fighting it. His ordeal had drained him entirely.

'Rest,' he thought he heard her say, and felt more than saw her throw a long leather strap about him, tying him tight to her. His head came to rest on her shoulder, and that was the last he knew for some time.

 

 

**

 

 

Waking was a long process. He became aware of light on his eyelids, but it was low enough that he was still really just dreaming. Then he noticed one of his feet was cold, and some time after that he thought if he could move the blanket he might warm up again. When he finally did move, he realised he was in bed, and thought then it must all have been a dream after all. But then his hand fell upon a foot that was very much not his, and he discovered he wasn't laying on a pile of stiff pillows, but someone's lap.

Gentle fingers carded through his hair. 'Harry,' Remus murmured, stroking the backs of his fingers down Harry's cheek.

His eyes filled. This time, he didn't stop them. He sat up, and Remus took him into his arms, and Harry let himself believe it was real, and it was over.

'Hem hem,' someone said, and Harry near bolted, but Remus didn't let him get very far. And, thank God, it was only Miss Applebaum, the Hogwarts mediwitch, bearing a little tray on which stood a steaming mug. 'Tea with honey,' she said. 'To soothe your throat.' She held it out til he took it, and then she put cold hands to his neck, feeling gently. Everything she touched was tender, but he didn't know how much damage there had really been til she told him to try speaking, and Harry opened his mouth. Nothing emerged but a raspy breath.

'Still quite swollen,' Miss Applebaum said, not seeming overly alarmed at this. 'Drink that tea. No permanent harm, let that ease your mind. Ribs, now, those'll be a few more hours yet, but-- yes-- yes, I think the Skelegrow's done you well. Deep breath. Good. Drink that tea, didn't I tell you to do?'

Obediently Harry sipped. It was just the right side of hot and tasted of chai and spice-- Dobby's blend, if Harry wasn't mistaken. The thought of his family made Harry look about, and he was pleased to have guessed correctly. Dobby was asleep on a pillow on the floor, snoring in his peculiar 'z-zzz-zzzz' pattern, and there in the chair above him was Regulus, a book on his knee, but closed, now, as he watched Harry. Lyall Lupin had a cot to the other side of Harry's, and he was snoring even louder than Dobby. When Harry looked about, sure he would be right, he found Sirius, leaning against the far wall by the window, a flask slipping away into a pocket. He came to Harry, now, bending to press a kiss to Harry's forehead.

'You gave us a right scare, little man,' he said, tugging at Harry's nose and seating himself on the edge of Harry's cot.

'Wha-- happ--' He couldn't get the words all the way out. He coughed, and sipped the tea again when Miss Applebaum crossed her arms at him.

'That amazon centaur warrioress brought you to the edge of the Forest,' Sirius said. He seemed to be looking past Harry, to Remus, who quietly rose from the bed and walked away, into the dark beyond the candles. Sirius wet his lips, and continued. 'She said they'd found you running from Death Eaters. Beyond that, it's up to you to tell us what the hell happened.'

'Here.' It was Remus, back with something. Harry's glasses. 'The centaurs found them and returned them. Your wand, too, if you were worried after it.' Harry slid the frames on gratefully, and the world resolved into focus. Remus knelt at Harry's side, taking one of his hands. He chafed it lightly between his own. 'You're cold,' he fretted. 'Back under the covers for you.'

Harry didn't mind being fussed over, at least a bit. He let Sirius tuck him in with two layers of quilts he recognised from home-- that was probably Dobby's work too-- and Remus plumped his pillows and Regulus brought him one of his Muggle notepads and a mechanical pencil. That evened things out nicely, and Harry was able to write a brief recap of his misadventure from within a cocoon of warm blankets, surrounded on all sides by the people he loved. Remus read over his shoulder, speaking aloud as Harry wrote, so there was only a little delay as Harry tried to make stiff fingers form legible letters.

'Greyback,' Remus said in a small brittle voice. 'I'm so sorry, Harry, it's all my fault.'

'Moony-- Remus, it's not,' Sirius countered, reaching for him. Remus flinched away, rising to his feet to skitter back a few steps, and Sirius stood, too, his face gone cold and his hands clenched into fists.

'It is,' Remus said harshly. 'I'm the one who recruited for Tom, aren't I? I found Greyback and the other werewolves. And Peter, Peter's my fault too, I knew he was an animagus, it should have occurred to me to look for him all those years.'

'You can't blame yourself for the tides.'

'Oh, can't I? Tom, Tom's my fault. Tom is all my fault.' Remus sank onto a chair, running a shaking hand through his shaggy hair. 'I should have destroyed the bloody diary.'

'So should Malfoy have done,' Sirius overrode him. 'You never took the Mark, you never chose this!'

'Pads!'

Regulus silently handed Harry the mug, freshly refilled with hot tea. 'It's all right,' he said softly. 'You're right. You're both right. We're all guilty. Does that fix anything?'

Sirius shuffled in place, dropped his head back on his neck to stare at the ceiling for a bit. 'I'll talk to the Aurors,' he muttered at last. 'We thought the grounds were safe but they got that portkey here somehow. We'll re-examine the wards. And you won't go running with Durmstrang anymore, Harry.'

'Can't--' Harry coughed. 'Can't keep me inside forever,' he wrote, and handed Sirius his notepad. Sirius read it with a grimace.

'Yeah, well, you can run with a bodyguard, then,' he retorted, and tossed the book to Harry's cot. He kissed Harry's temple again. 'Rest,' he ordered. 'I'll check on you in the morning.' He brushed past Remus on his way out, and for a moment stood looking down at him.

'I'm glad--' He cleared his throat. 'I'm glad you can touch someone, at least, if not me. Harry needs you.'

'Pads,' Remus said, almost inaudibly, but he didn't turn his head when Sirius cupped his chin. Sirius's thumb brushed over his lips-- and then Sirius was gone, striding out the door.

Despite the height of emotion in the room, or maybe because of it, Harry's eyes felt heavy again, and it was too much effort to raise his head. But he was glad when Remus came back to his cot, settling on the floor to look up at him.

'I wish you didn't have to be so brave,' Remus said. 'But you are. Even the centaurs were impressed, and they don't take after males much.'

He hadn't been awake to say thank you to the one who'd carried him all the way home. He didn't suppose centaurs took after letter-writing, either. Remus would know how to thank them. Remus knew all those sorts of things.

'You'll fix it with Sirius,' he whispered. 'He just misses you.'

'I miss you too,' Remus managed. If his cheeks were wet, he didn't mention it. He rested his hand on Harry's chest, over his heartbeat.

'What were they trying to do? Why did they need me?'

'From what you described, it sounds like something to do with horcruxes. Reuniting pieces long separated.'

'Making more Toms?'

He had never been gladder of a negative than when Remus shook his head promptly. 'That can't be done. Tom could only become real because he already had a consciousness. Wands, rings, those things aren't sentient. But he doesn't know what all the horcruxes are, or he didn't when I was with him...' Remus frowned over the problem. 'If they wanted your blood, it could be they were trying to create some kind of potion to locate the other horcruxes. Like calls to like. If it could be done, if it's not just a fool's errand to buy a little time...'

'Time for what?'

'I don't know,' Remus said. 'And that worries me. But don't let it worry you. Rest, Harry. We'll figure it all out in the morning.'

'Wait-- I've just remembered. Mr Malfoy, I hurt him.'

'Good.' Regulus snorted, and Remus raised a brow in his direction. 'Well done, I mean. If he's running double, it'll be better for his story.'

'I think he must be. He didn't hurt me, he tried to help, I think, a bit.'

'If Pettigrew is gathering Death Eaters,' Regulus murmured, 'then at least we know who to look for.'

'Can you recall anything about the other man?' Remus asked. 'You said there was Malfoy, Peter, Greyback, and a fourth?'

Sleep was pulling at him. 'He was blonde, I think,' he whispered. 'Sorry. It's all got blurry.'

'Don't ever apologise, Harry. You did so very very well.' Remus's hand on his chest gave a little tremble. 'If I'd lost you...'

'Never,' Harry said hoarsely. 'Pinky swear.'

It worked. A startled grin crossed Remus's face, melting into a more familiar smile. Remus nodded, putting up a hand. Harry linked their small fingers together. Even better, Remus extended his other hand, and Harry quite enjoyed watching Regulus blink and stuttered as he realised he was being included. If he'd been able to blush, Harry was quite certain, Regulus would have been red as a cooked lobster. He ducked his head, abashed, but hooked his finger with Remus's.

'And Dobby?'

Harry jumped. But he laughed. 'And Dobby,' he agreed, smiling at the elf who had waked at some point and eavesdropped like a proper Slytherin. Dobby delightedly took Harry's hand on the one side and Regulus on the other.

'So mote it be,' Regulus said, and they all agreed.

 

 

**

 

 

'I am afraid I am the one who determines when students are fit to be released, Professor,' Miss Applebaum was saying in her stuffiest tone.

Harry emerged from the loo doing up the tie in his hospital pyjama trousers. He was still stiff and achy, but on the whole felt much improved. His voice had even returned, if a little scratchy sounding.

But he was in no shape whatsoever to face the person currently standing off against Miss Applebaum. He stifled a groan as he hurried back to his cot, burying himself under his quilts and working on an appropriately pathetic whimper of tremendous illness. Then he questioned himself: maybe it would be better for Umbridge to think he'd already bounced back and needed no additional attention? If he was fine she couldn't chide him for being a layabout or taking advantage of people pitying him. Yes, that sounded cleverer. Harry rolled out of bed and grabbed for the clothes Dobby had brought him. He stuffed his head and arms into a hoodie and yanked a pair of jeans on over his pyjamas. No time to brush his hair or teeth--

'Potter!' The curtain was yanked back, and there she stood: Dolores Umbridge, in full strop. She wore her pinkest outfit yet, a rose tweed dress under a cheneille jumper of flamingo pink. Even her boots were pink, and her curls had been dusted with lavender. Her smile was red, red as blood, and despite himself Harry stared at it, thinking only of the blood that had come spurting off Greyback's body when Harry had cut him with the sword. He felt across the sheets for it, pulling the sword tight to his body.

'Mr Potter,' Umbridge crooned, oozing sympathy. 'Dear child, whatever are you doing out of bed?'

He had to cough to clear his throat. 'I'm ready to go back to classes, Professor.'

'Oh, I don't think that's at all wise,' she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Or she tried, anyway. Harry cringed away from her, and she paused, her hand still extended, looking down on him thoughtfully. 'No, I don't think that's wise at all.'

'I feel perfectly fine. Truly.'

'It is very rude to lie.'

'Nearly fine,' Harry edited himself.

Umbridge removed her wand from her sleeve, and flicked it at a chair. It marched primly to her, and she seated herself, sweeping her skirt prettily about her ankles. She contemplated Harry from that uncomfortably close distance, her varnished nails tap, tap, tapping on her knee.

'I am amazed,' she mused. 'At the lengths some people will go to. The stories some people will tell.'

His palms were getting sweaty on the sword's hilt. 'You don't believe me,' he said.

'It's a very sloppy tale, even you must agree. Werewolves and centaurs. Portkeys and ravens. Death Eaters who kidnapped you but did not intend to hurt you. You're only a few clowns short of a circus, Mr Potter.'

'No matter how many times you call me a liar, I'm not,' Harry hissed at her. He did rise, this time, with the sword in hand, and some part of her was glad to see it was her who flinched, this time. He didn't have his harness back yet so he couldn't sheathe it, he hadn't exactly meant it to scare her, but at the moment he didn't altogether mind that she might be scared of him. 'Are you going to tell everyone I strangled myself?' he demanded.

'I'm sure I can't begin to imagine how you did it, but I wouldn't put it past you. You are a greatly disturbed young man.'

'So disturbed I just pretended to be taken outside Hogwarts for hours and hours? They searched for me!'

'Doesn't every student prone to mischief find a hiding place or two?'

'I've heard you have an invisibility cloak, Harry.'

That was a new voice. Harry looked up into the flash of a camera. As he blinked the bright from his eyes, Rita Skeeter came at him, quill busily scratching out a story on a fresh parchment.

'I didn't have my cloak with me,' Harry said. 'I was out running, what would have been the point?'

'Carry your sword with you, though, didn't you?'

Harry hesitated, and that was his undoing. 'I'm not lying,' he said flatly. 'Miss Applebaum will back me up, won't you, Miss?'

'Of course I will,' she agreed heartily, though Harry hadn't been entirely sure she actually would. It gladdened him deeply. 'And I don't recall inviting the press into my hospital, so you can all march yourself right back where you came from! For shame, hounding the boy on his sickbed! I've half a mind to owl one of your rival papers,  _Miss_ Skeeter, and tell them all about you storming in here looking to scrounge up a story whether you had to weave it from whole cloth or not! And  _you_ _!'_ She jabbed a finger into Umbridge's frilly blouse. 'I've called for the Headmaster. Until he makes his determination, I'm the authority here. Get out. And you, boy, lay back down or I'll strap you down, and no lip.'

Harry was gaping. He was not the only one. He had never heard Miss Applebaum in such a temper, and it was a sight to behold. She snapped her fingers in his face, and with a jump he obeyed her, diving back into his cot with a clatter.

'Are you really sure you want to do this, dear?' Umbridge asked her sweetly.

'Very,' Applebaum retorted. 'I believe I gave you an order. All of you.'

'You want the truth to get out, Potter, owl me,' Rita called, as Applebaum forcibly about-faced her and frog-marched her for the door. The cameraman was quicker to catch the wind, and got himself out, though not without a final snap of Harry now lying in bed. 'Owl me!' Rita shouted, as Applebaum slammed the door on them.

Harry wiped his face. He'd been sweating. He hadn't even noticed. His hand was shaking, too. He didn't need any urging to stay flat and close his eyes. He didn't even argue when Miss Applebaum spooned a Calming Draught into him. He rather welcomed it.

'She's going to tell everyone I lied,' he mumbled, rolling to smoosh his hot face into his pillow.

'Over my dead body, Potter,' Miss Applebaum said smartly.

Tom had killed the previous mediwitch, Madam Pomfrey. It didn't seem too clever to bring that up, but it sat heavy on Harry's chest, just then. When Miss Applebaum brought him his breakfast, he pretended to be sleeping so he didn't have to eat it. Even the smell of sausages wasn't tantalising just then.

 

 

 

'I am so sorry,' Viktor said again, distress making unfamiliar lines on his face. 'I should haff stayed with you.'

'It wasn't your fault,' Harry forgave him immediately. 'You weren't to know what was coming and it wasn't your job to watch me anyway.'

'Yeah, s'mine,' Tonks said, plopping herself down beside him on the window seat. 'Hiyas,' she introduced herself to Viktor. 'I'm Tonks.'

'Hello, Madam Tonks.'

'Ew, no, just Tonks, thanks.' She slung an arm about Harry's shoulders. Usually it made Harry quite happy, but today the best he could muster was a momentary smile that slid right off his face. 'Oh, love,' Tonks said sympathetically, giving him a squeeze. 'What are you doing out of bed, anyway? Shouldn't you be sleeping it off?'

'Bored,' Harry said, which wasn't untrue, anyway. Miss Applebaum had kept him the rest of the day in hospital, but he really had been ready to go back to his dorm for the night. Only, once he'd got there, he'd taken one look at his curtains and determined he couldn't possibly spend the evening staring at them. So he'd gone back to the common room, only to find his friends were all out at Latin Revision, without him, probably discussing everything that had happened to Harry and all the plans they were going to make to keep him so locked down he'd never be out of their sight again. That had left him with Viktor, who had evidently been studying English all day so he could apologise at great length. He'd been at it for a solid ten minutes.

Tonks gave his hair a familiar muss, and went down the line of his neck to check his bruises. The shapes of fingers were still faintly visible above his collar, he knew. Viktor had been staring at them.

'Anyways,' Tonks said after a pause. 'I'll be lodged up wiv you lot now. You'll still have your privacy, don't worry about that; I'll kip in the old linen closet, the elves are putting in a cot for me. Très chic.'

Harry couldn't find it in him to protest. 'Okay,' he said quietly.

'I'll just be watching,' she qualified. He could feel her trying to catch his eyes, and pretended he was only reading Ron's Quidditch magazine. 'No interfering. You'll live your life, I'll just be nearby in case any nasty baddies show up, okay?'

'Okay.'

'Now why does this make me nervous?'

'Dunno, Tonks.' He rose. 'I'm tired, after all,' he said. 'Think I'll just go up. I hope the elves make your new room comfortable. Night, Viktor.'

'Good night, Harry,' Viktor replied, brows meeting in a deep frown.

Harry wasn't the least bit sleepy, after doing nothing but laying abed all day. He wished he had the time turner-- he supposed if he'd thought of it sooner, or been conscious earlier, he might have gone back in time and stopped himself being kidnapped. But it was too late, and even the thought of going back into the Forest was abhorrent. Hopefully he could thank the centaurs at a distance. He'd be just as happy to never get near enough to wave again.

With nothing better to do, he spent some time organising his desk, which had got rather overwhelmed since the start of term. He binned a lot of scraps and stacked bits of homework and half-drafted essays, piled his textbooks and read through a couple of chocolate frog cards he only vaguely remembered opening. He helped himself to a half-eaten box of Bertie Bott's Beans that might have actually been Ron's, but, he reasoned, possession was nine tenths of the law, and they were on his desk. He spat an earwax into a tissue, missed the bin, and knelt with a sigh to fetch it from under the bed. That was when he noticed the little scroll. He and all the other fourteen winners of the melee had been given them, along with medals-- also under his bed-- but he'd completely forgot the scroll. He sat back on his bed with it, unrolling it one-handed as he searched for a lemon or curry bean in the box.

He'd no sooner bit down on a bean than he was spitting it out, and not because it was earwax flavoured. The scroll was a clue to the next Task of the Tournament-- and the next Task was set to take place--

'Where else,' Harry said, and then he laughed, because sometimes life was only too absurd.

The bloody Forest. Of course it was.


	12. A Thing To Be Achieved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which One Dreams Outside The Lines._

'A kite,' Hermione said.

'What's that?'

'Key and a kite. I've been trying to remember all day. Benjamin Franklin from the American colonies.'

'I don't think they offered American Studies at school until O-Levels.'

'No, you know who Benjamin Franklin is, the American in the coon-skin hat and the little bifocal spectacles.' Hermione made a careful note and bent back over her telescope. 'He discovered electricity. Well, he conducted the experiment that proved lightning was electricity. I think. I'll have to find a book.'

Harry rubbed at tired eyes beneath his glasses. He'd borrowed the time turner earlier to finish his reading for classes, but that made the long night of astral viewing for Astronomy the capper of a day now some seventeen hours long, and Harry longed for nothing so much as a soft pillow.

'Here,' Neville said, nudging Harry's arm. He took the thermos Neville offered, glad to find it full of hot tea. Sip. Yawn. Harry adjusted his telescope to the next coordinates on their parchment, and tried to focus the lense on Mars. He rubbed at his eyes again, but the small red dot didn't resolve much.

'Need help?' Ron asked. 'This one's tricky. Hazy night.'

'Yeah. Sure.'

His friends fussed over him in their own way. He'd had a check in with nearly everyone in his year by the end of the night. Millie made her way across the rooftop to offer a chocolate frog, and Blaise corrected Harry's work-- Terry re-corrected it, but they kept their bickering out of Harry's hearing-- though Draco waited til the end of the assignment to put in an appearance. He elbowed his way through the crowd of students descending from the Astronomy Tower and joined Harry in queue. For a while they trod the stairs in silence, shoulders bumping, but Harry knew more was coming and waited it out tiredly. Everyone wanted their bit of reassurance he was alive and in one piece.  _The Prophet_ had published that picture of Harry in hospital, with a headline guaranteed to generate a week of rabid speculation.

_**FRAGILE OR FRAUD? HARRY POTTER HOSPITALISED AT HOGWARTS AND PROFESSORS ALLEGE SELF-HARM.** _

It was worse than first year, when whispers had followed Harry after every new issue of the papers. Then, at least, he'd been only a curiosity, a sort of myth come to life, and they'd only really wanted to know him. Now, the sidelong glances were pitying, and everyone seemed to think their opinion was as good as fact. Umbridge had dropped heavy hints that Harry's own guardian believed he was purposefully endangering himself, and Rita Skeeter had devoted four whole paragraphs to 'supporting evidence' she could only have got from Umbridge-- records of Harry's visits to the hospital wing figured prominently-- but the real coup was a rumour 'disclosed to this reporter from sources within the government who cannot be named without revealing their close relationship to the Minister himself' that Harry's relatives had once been investigated for abuse.

_**Can it be considered strange, then, that this poor child would find himself overwhelmed and unequipped to handle the intensity of the Wizarding World? In the last three years alone Harry Potter, a boy of a mere ten years, has faced his greatest enemy twice and faces still the threat of You Know Who's most dedicated followers, who just days ago lured their innocent victim from the safety of Hogwarts' grounds and subjected him to unknown tortures. Could it be considered strange that this child in whom all our hopes are vested no longer understands he should flee from danger, rather than face it headlong and alone? That he is no longer our hero, but our martyr? Where does the fault lie when neither teacher nor guardian, friend nor foe can teach this blessed boy that his life, too, is precious-- not just those lives he aims to save by sacrificing his tender flesh and simple soul?**_

_**Could it be considered strange-- could it be considered too much, too far, too cruel-- for we who owe our little lion so much to lavish back on him our love, and wrap him tight in the security he so desperately craves? Let us not hesitate to provide the protection he needs, to safeguard him from those who would harm him... even including himself.** _

'I'm not ten,' Harry had protested crossly, 'and if she's got that wrong, why would the rest of it be right?' when he'd first read the article, but pointing out the many factual inaccuracies of Skeeter's melodrama did nothing to undermine her. If anything, Hogwarts now seemed to be home to a great many students who thought they had to personally supervise Harry's every move in case he stumbled into danger inadvertent or otherwise. Tonks was outside his door watching him sleep, he was followed to the loo whenever he requested a hall pass, escorted by prefects in the halls, and constantly found himself fending off well-meaning attempts to safeguard his person from any task judged at all risky. Pansy Parkinson had slapped his hand away from his cauldron in Potions, even, scolding him not to touch the hot metal. 'I wasn't going to, I'm not an idiot,' Harry had said, exasperated, but she'd only given him a condescending stare of patent disbelief, and monitored him like a bomb about to go off for the rest of class. Aster Kennedy snatched away his knife at breakfast to cut his sausages for him-- they weren't even meat, they were Glamorgan vegetarian sausages made of cheese and onion-- and Harry had left them rolling about on his plate in a fit of temper, stomping off to wait out the breakfast hour sitting in an empty classroom alone and steaming. His poor mood carried over all week when the ridiculousness showed no signs of abating.

His friends had stepped up, at least, closing ranks about him as only they could. By then, Harry was too tired to take them on, as well, and just accepted their intervention. He knew they meant well, and tried to rein in his temper with them, but he was dead tired of people dogging his heels all day, of being treated like cracked glass that would shatter if handled with anything less than ginger care. He'd reached his limit when Oliver had conscientiously suggested that maybe Harry ought to sit out Quidditch this year, all things considered; Harry had walked right off the pitch and gone looking for Percy and his store of calming draughts. But as he'd lain sleepless that night staring at his canopy of dark curtains, he had come to some grim conclusions.

One: Umbridge had as good as won. She had planted doubt and done it well, and now it was done there was nothing Harry could do that would change minds for the better. Even if he never stepped a toe out of line the rest of the year, for the rest of his years at school or the rest of his bloody life, people would only think he'd stopped because he'd got caught.

Two: If that was true, there was no good pretending it would blow over. And maybe no good pretending he cared what people thought. It didn't change a whit of what he had to do: he was still a TWAT, he was still meant to be winning allies, he still had to face Tom Riddle and Voldemort someday. And he couldn't do that if he let people hem him in and wrap him in cotton batting. If he looked at it aright, really, it was almost freeing. He could do whatever he needed, now, do his utmost, stop trying to balance everything all the time.

Three: And damn anyone who got in his way. If the Wizarding World wouldn't stop poking and pricking at him, he'd give them a show for it.

His scheme was simple. He was a Gryffindor, after all, meant to be brave and determined. So he went at it without artifice, without hesitation, calling every ounce of stubborn muleheadedness to the fore and letting it run headlong. He refused to even remove his wand from its sheath in Transfiguration. He used the sword, laid it right on the table in front of him, and when McGonagall chided him he wasn't doing proper spellwork, he replied politely that he'd done the assignment, hadn't he? And the sword produced perfect results every time. McGonagall took a point for attitude, but there was uncertainty at her eyes, and she didn't hold him back when he left at the end of class. In Charms, Harry gathered Neville and Ron and brought them with him to the back row to sit with Hermione, disrupting Umbridge's careful arrangement of Muggleborn and Pureblood rankings. Umbridge wouldn't hesitate to give him a detention, but Harry had a countermove ready. 'I shouldn't like to disrupt class were something unfortunate to happen,' he said in a perfect match for her saccharine tones. 'I know you're only looking out for us, Professor, but I feel ever so much safer like this.' Umbridge scowled, but after Skeeter's article she could hardly chastise him in public for seeing to his own safety. In Divination, he told Professor Trelawney he was sure his nightmares would reveal a cosmic truth if he were allowed to pursue it, and outright put his head down on his crossed arms for a nap all period. In Care of Magical Creatures, he volunteered straight away when Hagrid sought a doughty sort to introduce themselves to that week's creature, the magnificent furred-and-feathered beastie called a hippogriff. Harry obeyed Charlie's instructions to bow low, keeping his eyes unchallengingly turned to the ground til he heard an accepting sort of snort from the intimidatingly large Buckbeak. But then he shuffled forward a step at a time, offering the hand that had once touched unicorn blood. Other creatures of the Forest seemed to find something reassuring about that, and Buckbeak was no different. It snapped its razor-sharp beak as Harry's fingers neared, but then it came a four-hoofed step toward Harry, and bent to nuzzle at his chest purring like a great kitty.

'Well done, Harry, well done!' Hagrid enthused, clapping Harry on the shoulder. 'Yeh got the instinct, that's fer sure. Now let's see if he'll let you ride 'im, eh?'

'Hagrid,' Charlie tried.

'Wait, what?' Harry said, but Hagrid, all aglow at his professorial success, seized Harry about the waist, hauled him airborne as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, slung him over Buckbeak's back, and delivered a ringing slap to Buckbeak's rump. With a jolting lunge, Buckbeak threw himself into a run, and Harry could only throw his arms frantically about Buckbeak's long neck to save himself falling off. The hippogriff unfurled his marvellous huge wings, pumped them once, twice, thrice, and then with the fourth downthrust his hooves left the dirt, and they soared upward.

'It's just like being broom-back,' Harry said, the words snatched from his lips by the wind. His breathless laugh vanished the same way, but all suddenly he was laughing, his temper lifting from his shoulders as if it had never been. 'This is amazing!' he hollered, and Buckbeak answered with a bold scream, a warrior's scream, and they were hurtling through the air in a glorious rush toward victory. 'Yeeeeessss!' Harry shouted, daring to let loose his deathgrip on Buckbeak's feathered neck and spreading his arms wide. The rush of air as they sliced through the skies battered him from all directions, but in that moment Harry felt invincible, and he knew he was grinning like a loon.

All too soon, though, it was over. Hagrid flagged them on an overpass, and Buckbeak obeyed his command, skimming low over the lake as he slowed in his descent, and at last putting down on the green outside Hagrid's hut, trotting to a stop. As Harry's ears cleared, he realised he no longer heard the wind, but the applause of his astounded classmates, and beamed at them. He made sure to give Buckbeak a well deserved cosset, and a more cautious bow when the hippogriff tried to nip at his knee as he was sliding off his perch, but played it off as cool as he could. Hope they put  _that_ in the  _Prophet_ , he thought smugly as he rejoined his yearmates.

'Harry, that was awesome!' Seamus clapped him on the back, and Dean was right behind him, full of questions how it had felt, and Blaise and Theo congratulated him-- Blaise seemed a bit put out, but owned it had looked wonderfully exciting-- Crabbe gave Harry a much less conflicted shove, which Harry took to mean 'Congratulations'-- not a one of the Ravenclaws were at all interested in Harry, but had surrounded Charlie for an intense scholastic discussion. Ron was so taken with the performance that he ran to Hagrid's side for a ride of his own, and after a minute of dithering Neville decided to join him, and Blaise suggested Hermione might like to accompany them, but as she was already skipping off the join the queue that was a bit of wasted effort, and Millie followed shaking her head. Draco was the only one who kept at Harry's side after the crowd died down, his lips pursed and his gaze thoughtful.

'What?' Harry asked him carelessly, taking a sprawl in the shade of an old twisted oak and letting himself relax for the first time in days.

Draco was slow to join him, dusting the ground of dirt and crossing his legs primly under him. 'Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?'

'Sorry, who's "we"?'

Draco's eyes grew flinty. 'You're not acting like yourself,' he accused.

Harry returned him a look of his own. 'Make up your mind, Draco. You want me to think like a Slytherin, and when I do you think I oughtn't. Well, I'm not here to do what you want me to do.'

'Don't talk to me like that!'

'I'll talk to you how I like.'

Well, maybe not like that, though. Harry regretted that the moment it left his lips. Draco saw his wince, though, and gave a mere disgruntled wave when Harry stuttered the first few syllables of an apology. 'Stop,' he conceded. 'You're not wrong.'

That was the Slytherin version of an apology, Harry reckoned, so he said nothing in reply, and the silence between them was relatively easy, at least. Ron had got his turn at bowing to Buckbeak, and made an elegant go of it. Charlie did his best not to favour his brothers in class, but he was unmistakably proud when Buckbeak allowed Ron to climb aboard his broad back. Ron's whoop of delight as Buckbeak took flight made Harry smile, too.

'You should try it,' he told Draco.

'Ride that overgrown chicken? I think not.'

'Scared?'

'You wish!'

'Well, you shouldn't be,' Harry said, leaning his back against the trunk of the tree. Yes, some part of him had needed this; he felt unburdened, and hoped the feeling out outlast dinner at least. 'But it won't last,' he admitted, aloud but mostly to himself. He'd had the advantage of everyone all week precisely because he wasn't acting like himself, and it wouldn't be long til they all rallied and found a way to stop him doing. And Harry supposed he could go to war with everyone and the  _Prophet_ besides, but he didn't really want to. He didn't have the energy to spare on it. 'It was nice as it lasted, though.'

'Hmph,' Draco said, but he was smiling at last, a little crinkle at the corners of his mouth even as he pretended to be too lofty and important for his friend. But they both knew otherwise, and so it was all right.

But there was one last defiance Harry meant to make, and he timed it carefully, having meticulously thought out the gain of doing it this way or that, and concluding it was best done publicly and all at the once. Umbridge's special meal for him appeared at his place per the norm, and Harry ate a few bites for show, not drawing any especial attention to himself. Umbridge had been waiting to pounce on him all week, and her beady eyes stared him down, dared him from the Head Table. Harry chatted with his friends as he downed a few swallows of mealy potato leek soup, but when Umbridge relaxed and turned away from Harry-watching to sip her wine, Harry calmly put his bowl aside. He stabbed three thick slices of salt beef from the platter in front of him, and dished a large spoonful of cabbage and mash and carrots, and took three of the buttery rolls and slathered them with drippings from the meat platter, arranged them on his napkin for lack of a proper plate, and began to eat.

Nearly ten minutes, he judged. The scritch of Umbridge's chair scraping on the stone went largely unnoticed in the usual dinner chatter, but when she marched down the steps across the Hall to Harry's seat at the far end, that stopped people dead in their conversation, and all eyes were on her as she presented herself across the table from Harry. Lavender and Parvati were stuck to either side of her large person, and hesitated with forks raised to their open mouths.

'Mr Potter,' Umbridge said, poison underlaying her usual sweet smile. 'You are not in order.'

'I'm sorry, Professor,' Harry answered civilly. 'What am I doing wrong?'

'That is not your meal.'

Harry looked down at his napkin, affecting surprise. 'It's what everyone else is eating, ma'am.'

'But it is not what you are meant to be eating.'

'Oh, you mean my special meals,' Harry nodded, pointy to his gungy soup. 'Well it just didn't seem right, Professor, me getting something special when no-one else does.'

She began to suspect his line of attack, Harry saw that in the narrowing of her eyes. She chose her words more guardedly, aware, now, that he had staged this deliberately to be heard by all and sundry. 'You have special needs, dear boy. Your diet must be-- must meet certain nutritional standards.'

'To be healthier?' Harry posed a thoughtful frown. Everyone was staring, now, Ron with a piece of chicken hanging from his lower lip. 'If the special diet is healthier, though, shouldn't we all get to eat it then? So we can all be equally healthy.'

Her jaw clenched. Harry very deliberately widened his eyes to his most innocent look.

'There may be something to what you say, Dolores,' a voice behind Harry spoke, and Harry jumped, twisting to see Snape had come to stand behind him. He swallowed dryly, looking up at the tall man who stood now with his arms folded in his sleeves, as was his habit to hide his shortened left arm, but who raised the other hand now to tap thoughtfully at his chin. 'To my recollection,' Snape went on, 'the diet at Hogwarts has not changed at least since I was a student here, and as I recognise many of the dishes as common to my parents' generation I must assume it goes back farther still. Yet standards have changed as our society becomes more educated and modern. The Muggles far outpace us in their sophistication in such sciences. I, for one, would be shamed to be outdone by mere Muggles.' He nodded decisively. 'Yes, Dolores, you've convinced me. I'll write to the Board of Governors immediately proposing they evaluate the health of our meal plans at once. Well spotted, Professor.'

Harry knew he gaped. He was not the only one, of course-- muffled groans were chasing round the Hall as those close enough to overhear passed it on, each horrified by the loss of the much beloved Hogwarts feast. No doubt a hundred letters would be winging off to parents tonight, full of whinging protest--

And that was when Harry caught on. Faced with massive outcry, the Board wouldn't vote to change the meals. And Umbridge would have no further excuse to target Harry alone.

Snape never so much as glanced at Harry. He took a fork to the carrots, spearing one for his close examination, and he carried it with him back to his seat at the Head Table, munching passively. Harry bit his lip against a smile.

Umbridge had been out-manoeuvred, and her chubby cheeks had slowly flushed, now gleaming bright red as the full extent of her humiliation became clear. Her glare promised Harry retribution, and he met it square, determined to show her he wasn't afraid. Bring your worst, he dared her right back.

'Is that the time?' Umbridge gritted out at last, pretending to look at the watch pinned to her shawl, though she didn't even glance at it. 'Only I'm meant to call the Minister. He does keep a close eye on things here, as you all might well imagine.' She strode off for the doors, her heels all but striking sparks on the stones.

Ron blew out a deep breath. 'Thought for sure she was gonna go off her nut,' he exclaimed, just remembering to hush himself as Hermione bapped him on the arm.

Not without a great deal more provocation, Harry was sure. He was sure, too, they'd have their confrontation eventually, and he couldn't count on Snape to be there next time. But that was eventually's problem. For now, Harry had won, and he served himself a large helping of treacle tart to bask in his triumph.

 

 

**

 

 

'Special delivery,' Tonks announced, holding out a folded note for Harry.

He took it, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses as he struggled to refocus from the colour chart he was making for History of Magic. He knew Tonks, like Snape, suspected him of using Hermione's time turner, and now Tonks was in a position to observe him so closely Harry had decided that discretion was the better part of valour til her attention turned elsewhere. Consequently he'd fallen behind on his homework, and was putting in more hours in Gryffindor's common room as he struggled to finish everything with only the time nature had allotted him. He stifled a groan as he read the message. A trip to Hagrid's for tea was always welcome, but he had a stack of chapters to read after he'd done his chart and two essays to write and sometime before Thursday he had to check on the silksop vines they were growing for Herbology, his hadn't budded yet and he meant to reapply his fertility charm--

'I'll go with you, if you like,' Tonks said.

As if he had a choice. 'Fine,' Harry replied shortly, shoving his work into a rough pile and scratching his name on the top parchment so no-one would disturb it. 'I'll go now, I can pass by the greenhouses on the way.'

'Sounds good, Li'l Bit.' Tonks fell in with him as he headed out the portrait, taking his eyeroll at this newest petname with a grin. He didn't need any reminders he was one of the shortest of his year, thank you. She at least tried to make it seem normal, an Auror walking alongside him, as if she might choose to hang about with kids half her age for no reason in particular. Her usual costume of Muggle clothes at least made her stand out differently than Savage's red robes. Harry quite liked her leather jacket with big shoulder pads, belted tightly to her slim waist, her hair long today and streaming in crimped blonde strands to brush her shoulders. Harry had heard her talking to the Gryffindor girls about hair and makeup, and had noticed more than a few sporting the same look all week. Luna had appeared at breakfast one day with crimped hair, too, but seemed quite surprised it was a purposeful style and had said something vague about trying an old family recipe for lemonade. How or even if that was connected, Harry wasn't quite sure.

His silksop vine didn't look any better for a new fertility charm, so Harry took a quick look about and sneakily reached back to touch his sword. 'Just a little bit,' he urged it quietly, 'don't overdo... perfect!' Green buds had appeared, strategically scattered up and down the vine. Harry made sure it was still well attached to its trellis, gave the dirt in the pot a little pat, and rejoined Tonks by the door. 'Finished,' he said.

'I was always pants at Herbology,' Tonks confessed, slinging an arm about his shoulders and guiding him out to the fresh evening air. 'Worst of all, my mum's brilliant at it. Well, I guess it's called "gardening" when it's Muggle, although she grows a few things you wouldn't necessarily find in a Muggle house, you know. You know, she'd like to meet you. Maybe over Christmas?'

'Sure,' Harry agreed, not really listening. But then his brain caught up with what she'd said. 'I'll be spending Christmas at home, won't I be?'

'Might be fun to shake things up, eh? Spend some time with the extended family.'

'I want to spend time with my own family, if that's all right.' He angled for a view of her face, noting she seemed to have difficulty meeting his eyes. 'Remus can be back with us for Christmas, can't he?'

'It'll depend what's all going on.'

'That's a no, then.'

'It's a maybe. It's an I hope so.' She gave him a squeeze. 'But if we can't risk it for whatever reason, we'll make sure you have a good holiday, you know?'

'I can have a good holiday with Grandda and Sirius and Regulus and Dobby.'

'Harry...' Tonks slowed, and Harry slowed, perforce, dragged by her hold on him. She faced him, reaching out to give his hair a tousle. 'I know things aren't going well with Sirius,' she murmured, her fingers gentle in his hair. 'Just trying to give you some options.'

Harry dragged up a deep breath from the gut, and let it out slowly. 'Thanks,' he said, 'but I think leaving him alone at Christmas is worse than the way things are right now. And I'd druther things be fixed, not avoided.'

'Do we need to talk about the rest of it?'

Her finger under his chin lifted his face to hers. 'There is no rest of it,' Harry said, meeting her eyes. 'And you either believe me or you don't, but I really hope you do, because it would be nice to have a friend.'

She looked troubled. Harry didn't push her, honestly not sure which way she would fall. But when she bit her lip and nodded, his heart was glad.

They made their way downhill to Hagrid's hut. When word of the opening of the Chamber of Secrets had broke last year, suspicion had fallen on Hagrid, amongst others, and he had been sacked from his job. Harry had worried at the time the gentle half-giant would have no-where to go, but had been reassured by Dumbledore that Hagrid's home on school grounds remained his alone. Though Harry had never quite thought about how old his friend was, he was actually quite old indeed-- he'd been in school at the same time as Tom Riddle. That point in history was a bit hazy for Harry, a black-and-white pastiche of Nazi soldiers and the valiant RAF in their stubby aeroplanes and, from Harry's even more limited understanding, a wizarding war against a man who called himself Grindelwald, who had been defeated in a duel by Dumbledore himself. Harry had also learnt last year that the Order of the Phoenix had been formed then, to combat Grindelwald, and that Riddle had been part of it, selected to study what Grindelwald might do with the Dark Arts to defeat his Light enemies. What Tom had learnt had set him on his own Dark path, and that path had traced its way through history to Harry's parents, to Sirius and Remus, to the woman who now walked beside him. It was all of a piece, Harry thought now, and wondered what that meant for himself. If he would be the end of the path, or just another marker along its way.

Fang barked a greeting from the garden, where he was, unusually, tethered to the old chicken roost. Harry pet him through the wire fencing, as Tonks went to knock at Hagrid's door, and Hagrid's booming greeting summoned him in. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and very welcome it was, as Harry discovered he'd got quite cold on the way down. Autumn was on the wane. Harry was ushered to one of the very large chairs set before the fire, there to toast up the soles of his trainers and the palms of his hands as Hagrid poured tea into cups the size of cereal bowls and chattered on in the way Hagrid did, pleased to have a visitor and very determined to be the best of hosts. Harry didn't mind the bustle; Hagrid's company was always good, and Hagrid talked so much Harry only rarely had to pipe up, so it was quite relaxing, all told. By the time Hagrid finally eased his bulk into a chair with a tea of his own, passing around a tin of his home-baked rock cakes, Harry felt as if the outside world was on hold and he could hide from it for so long as Hagrid let him stay. Before he knew it, the warmth had seeped deep, making his limbs heavy and his eyes droopy, and it didn't seem too impolite not to listen all that closely to Hagrid's story about teaching Fang to root for truffles, as he'd once had a pig that had an excellent nose for it but dogs and pigs were about as clever as the other, weren't they?

'Shh,' Harry heard Tonks whisper, as she leant over him to tuck a quilt over his knees. 'He's just that knackered, poor kid.'

But at some point there were other voices, and Harry became slowly aware of people walking around inside Hagrid's hut. He turned his head so his nose rubbed on the pillow, smooshing his glasses against his face, and sighed. He supposed it wasn't the thing to nap when there were other people about, he thought muzzily. Hold up: other people? Hagrid hadn't mentioned there would be other guests. Maybe Ron and Hermione and the others? Harry freed a hand from the quilt and rubbed his eyes, yawning. He made an effort to sit up and look about, and blinked. It wasn't his friends. It was Dumbledore, Mr Crouch, Sirius, a rather terrifying man who had wild hair, some kind of freaky eye patch and a leg made of metal, and there standing in the open kitchen window accepting a large mug from Hagrid was Sioned, the lady centaur who had rescued Harry.

'Oh,' Harry said, and heads turned toward him.

'Harry Potter,' said the centaur in reply. She raised the mug for him, drank deeply, and slammed the mug on the window ledge. 'Another, Hagrid, if you don't mind.'

'A woman after me own heart,' Hagrid approved, popping the cork on a large jug of whiskey and filling the mug to the brim. 'Er, horse.'

Harry joined the crowd in the kitchen, beckoned on by Mr Crouch, who saluted him with a mug of his own. 'We won't keep you from your supper, my boy,' Crouch promised, adding with a little wink, 'specially as you seem to have solved that little issue. But we're gathered here to discuss the upcoming Task for the Tournament, and we need a bit of input, as it were, from you.'

'Oh, er, all right.' Tonks gestured Harry to join her and Sirius at the table, and Harry sat, hooking his ankles about the tall legs. There were plans on table, spread over several feet of parchment, and Harry noticed one word straight away. 'Dementors,' he said glumly.

'Problem, Potter?'

It was the man who looked like a monster from the Freddy Kreuger movies. And it wasn't, Harry saw with sick fascination, an eye patch, so much as a strap holding a big gleaming glass eyeball in the left socket. The eye rolled constantly, sometimes even showing only white as the coloured iris slid into the back of-- Harry shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about it.

'Er,' he said, trying to recall what he'd been asked. 'I just haven't had many good experiences of Dementors.' His gaze slid to Sirius, noting the whiteness of his lips as they pressed together.

'No-one has, laddie, that's rather the point.'

'They've been maintaining the security perimetre,' Tonks told Harry patiently. 'But after what happened to you, we're thinking of having them patrol the Forest, too. Only that requires some negotiation with the peoples of the Forest.'

Sioned belched robustly and slammed the mug down again. She wiped her mouth of her arm. 'Hence my presence here,' she said. 'And the answer is "no". The Dementors will not be controlled, and I do not trust them to only hunt my enemies. I will not risk my people so you humans may play a game.'

'The Tournament is not precisely a game,' Dumbledore explained patiently. 'It is true that it is a competition, of magical ability, but it serves a larger purpose for our peoples. This young man--' he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing gently, 'has great enemies, and has need of allies who will stand by him when the time comes. This Tournament is crucial in that search.'

The centaur looked Harry up and down, drumming her fingers on the window sill. Hagrid considerately refilled her mug, but she didn't yet drink, too busy sizing Harry up. 'Our seers know of this boy,' she said abruptly. 'His coming was foretold. As were his companions. Has he not yet won his companions?'

'My companions?' Harry repeated. 'You mean my friends?'

'Not quite,' Sirius said lowly, and it hit Harry what Sirius meant, then. The Knights and the Light Guard.

'Some of his companions have been located, yes,' Dumbledore nodded. 'There are others yet to make themselves known. Hence the urgency behind the Tournament.'

'What say you, boy?' Sioned demanded.

'Oh.' Harry straightened his glasses. 'Well, um, there's... what everyone's said is true. It's like I told you that day in the Forest-- Voldemort is out there, well, two Voldemorts sort of, and he has his... well, I suppose they're sort of his companions, aren't they? The Death Eaters. My friends and I, we've faced him before, but he's not dead yet, and as I understand it there's some business about prophecies? Is that what you mean about seers? I don't know what the prophecy is, only that it exists and some people named the Unspeakables have it.'

Evidently that was news to the adults, who all exchanged long looks. 'You had to do it,' Freddy Kreuger muttered to Dumbledore, stealing Hagrid's jug to fill his own cup. 'You had to teach the boy to read.'

'I cannot claim credit for that,' Dumbledore replied, tilting his head low to look at Harry over the rims of his spectacles. 'But there may be something to what you say, Alastor. Harry, how did you come to know of a prophecy?'

'Some of the students from Durmstrang,' Harry said truthfully. 'They know all about prophecies and such. They said there had to be one about me and Voldemort, and the Unspeakables have all the prophecies in Britain, don't they?'

'Enough,' Sioned interrupted. 'Harry Potter, answer me this: do  _you_ ask me to allow the Dementors into the Forest?'

Harry grasped straight away what she was asking. Not whether he thought it was a good idea or not, which he didn't; or whether he would try to defend his professors and the Ministry trying to do it, which at any rate was not Harry's place, as they would no doubt be swift to remind him should he attempt to disagree, which he did. What Sioned wanted to know was whether he'd try to lean on his own authority, whatever of it he had, or on their personal connection, since she'd saved him once already and now knew who he was. Harry supposed he might have to, if Dumbledore asked him to-- it was essentially what he'd done a half dozen times already, as they'd planned the Tournament. But somehow it was one thing to stand still and let wizards and witches carry on about Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that, and yet another with a creature like Sioned. Well, no, she wasn't properly a creature, that was the problem. Buckbeak the hippogriff was a creature and didn't care who Harry was to anyone else, not really. Sioned was more like... Sioned was more like Griphook the goblin, who didn't want anything from Harry except that Harry acknowledge him, see him, treat him as well as he treated other humans. Or like Remus, who was human all but a few days a year when the moon rose, but would never be treated like a human by others because of a curse that wasn't even his fault. There were a great many people, really, who didn't fit in the Wizarding World, and for no better reason than it gave some the privilege of saying they were better than others.

'No,' Harry said, even as the adults around him winced. 'The Forest is your home. I don't reckon I'd much like having Dementors in my home. If you did decide to do it, I'm sure the Aurors would be glad, but it's not for me to ask you to, to... to give that up.'

Sioned seemed pleased with his answer. Her chocolaty brown eyes smiled, though her tanned face stayed very stern. 'I will take your request back to the Council of Elders,' she told Dumbledore and Crouch. 'And perhaps as you wait on our reply you might consider offering something which would-- how do you humans say it? Sweeten the deal.'

A foot nudged him under the table. Sirius. Harry hid his smile, too.

Sioned threw back the last of her drink, and picked up her longbow and quiver where they had rested against Hagrid's hut. She slung them across her back, securing the strap over her leather armour. 'Good-bye, Harry Potter, for now,' she said then, inclining her head toward him. She turned to go, but then backed up to the window, cocking an elbow on the sill with her gaze gone thoughtful. 'Are you full grown for your kind?' she asked.

'Me? I'm only thirteen.'

'You will get larger? You are very scrawny.'

'I hope so?'

'Hm.' She gave him another thorough going-over, then nodded to herself. 'It is good to have some time to see how you turn out,' she decided. 'My term as Governor ends in eight seasons. I will court you then, if you have grown a bit and are still pleasing to the eye.' She bared her teeth in a grin as he blushed hotly. 'Very pleasing,' she purred, and then she was off, galloping down the hill to the Forest.

'Please don't tell anyone about that,' Harry begged Tonks, as several pairs of amused eyes turned on him.

Tonks laughed so hard she got the hiccoughs, and even Dumbledore had himself a chortle at Harry's expense. 'You could do worse,' Mr Crouch said lightly, moustaches twitching. 'To be elected by her people to their highest office at such a young age is impressive. And she won't keep you long-- centaurs only mate til they foal, and then she'll give you the boot. Or the hoof, as it were.'

'Let's keep it in the same species, please,' Sirius objected. 'I'd prefer my grandchildren to have two legs, not four.' He frowned. 'At least til they're old enough to take an Animagus form.' His frown deepened, with a hint of alarm. 'You can't have puppies in an Animagus form, can you?'

Harry's face was so red he could feel it flaming against his palms. He put his head down on the table, and even Hagrid giggled at him.

 

 

**

 

 

'Harry, a moment?'

'Oh.' Harry turned to face his Headmaster. 'Of course, sir.'

'I'm not interrupting deep thoughts?' Dumbledore chose a pumpkin near Harry's as a seat, tucking his pipe between his teeth. 'The Forest does tend to draw the eye,' he said, correctly observing the direction of Harry's gaze. 'Though I have not ventured in much of late, I used to enjoy a romp amongst the wilds. There is little raw magic of that kind left in the world, you know. We are greatly blessed.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Though perhaps it may not be so easy for you to feel glad of that just now,' Dumbledore guessed softly. 'What you went through there must have been terrifying.'

Harry cleared his throat. 'I was just about to go in, sir.'

'A moment, please.' Harry glanced over his shoulder to find Sirius lingering nearby, talking to the Auror with the glass eye, which turned toward Harry in a stomach-roiling roll. Harry hunched his shoulder and faced Dumbledore hastily. 'I would like to talk to you about prophecy,' Dumbledore said.

'I reckon I'd like to talk to you about it, too, Professor.' Harry rubbed his arms, which had broken out in goosepimples. Dumbledore snapped his fingers at Harry, and warmth chased away the cold. Harry heaved a sigh. 'There is a prophecy about me, then?' he asked.

'Yes,' Dumbledore nodded. 'There is.'

'Isn't that sort of... significant? The sort of thing it might be useful to know in detail?'

Dumbledore contemplated the Forest without answering immediately, and Harry could almost wonder if the old man had heard him at all-- the ravens in Hagrid's pumpkin patch were being awfully loud as they went about gathering their dinner. But something made him hold his tongue, and his reward was Dumbledore's eyes returning to him at last, frank and honest.

'I can only tell you what I believe to be true,' Dumbledore said sombrely. 'And what I believe to be true is that it is our own choices, not the fates, are what determine our path in life. I have found, to my great delight, that you make excellent choices, if I may say so.'

'Even though we don't always agree?' Harry asked warily, recalling the issue of the blood wards. Dumbledore had done him a great service since the day Harry had gone behind his back and got the Chief Auror to investigate the Dursleys, ensuring Harry could never be sent back there even if Dumbledore believed that was all that stood between Harry and his enemy Lord Voldemort. Dumbledore had helped ensure Sirius got a fair trial so everyone would know he was innocent and could be free to raise Harry himself, as Harry's godfather and then adopted guardian.

'You have your reasons, and your instincts are very good. If I have ever caused you to doubt yourself, I am deeply sorry for it.'

Harry scratched at his neck, embarrassed by such high praise. 'Probably a few doubts would do me good,' he admitted.

Dumbledore smiled. 'So it would every man in his youth. But there is one thing I must ask of you, and I'm afraid you may well disagree with me, and I cannot explain my reasons to your satisfaction at this time. I must ask you not to pursue this prophecy.'

'Oh. Why? Sorry, you've just said you can't say. Er... but mightn't it be important?'

'Yes, it very well might,' Dumbledore mused. He released a ring of smoke, and another, but paused before the next puff, and lowered his pipe instead. 'But though it is your path to walk, Harry, in this I have walked before you. Will you trust me to know when the time is right, and only then to tell you what you must need to know?'

It was the strangest thing, because for weeks-- months-- maybe all the years of his life, Harry had had no choice but to do as adults wished him to, and so he'd done what he was told having no other recourse. But where even an hour ago he might have fought with all in him against what Dumbledore asked, and it was a very big thing to ask, he knew-- now he had a choice, and he knew as well Dumbledore would honour his choice, whatever it was.

So he let out a slow breath. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I'll trust you.'

'Thank you,' Dumbledore said simply, though it was not at all simple. It was good, though, and Dumbledore looked a little bit lighter for having said it, and Harry felt a little bit lighter for having heard it. It was good.

Dumbledore patted him on the knee, then, and rose. 'Back to reality,' he said, smiling that smile that had always spoken of secrets, before, and now spoke of secrets that would one day be shared. 'But first, dinner. Roast chicken, I believe-- one of your favourites?'

Harry stood, too, grinning at the Headmaster. 'I'm looking forward to it.'

Sirius had contrived to linger, and met him on the path. 'Didn't have the chance to introduce you properly,' he said, gesturing to the scary Auror at his side. 'Alastor Moody, Harry. Harry, Mad Eye, as he likes to go by.'

'There's no "like" about it,' Moody grunted. 'It's a mite disappointing, this old face,' he told Harry, 'but it's mine.' He sized Harry up, one eye on Harry's face and the other rolling up and down and back again. 'August owns he's got potential,' Moody told Sirius.

Sirius let out a sharp 'Ha!' 'Potential my arse. He's as good as any fourth or fifth year.'

'I'll judge for myself, thank you.' Abruptly Moody addressed Harry again. 'Quite literally. I'm judging at the next Task. Do your best, Potter, no nancing about this time, eh? Fight to win or don't bother at all.'

'Er, yes, sir,' Harry said.

'Hmph.' Moody lifted a hand-- Harry took a lean out of range, just in case, but Moody was only waving a good night of his own, and then he was stumping off, not toward the castle, but the path along the Lake that would lead to the gates. Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that, though his back was to them and he ate up the ground quickly for a man with only one real leg, Moody was watching them with that most definitely mad eye.

'Every time I think I've got you figured out,' Sirius said. 'Seducing centaurs, huh. What happened with Ginny Weasley?'

'Ginny? What about her?'

'Or perhaps the gentleman prefers blondes? What's the story with that little blonde girl I've been hearing about, the Lovegood girl?'

'Luna? What?'

'We'll miss dinner if we don't hurry,' Tonks interrupted cheerily, bowling into Sirius not quite on purpose, rescued by his quick arm. 'Ta,' she muttered, craning her neck to see what had tripped her, and finding nothing other than her own two feet. 'Come on, you lot.'

'Um, actually.' Harry hesitated, then decided it was worth it. He'd put too much work into fixing things this week to overlook something this important. 'Maybe we could have dinner together, just you and me?' he asked Sirius. 'It would be nice.'

Sirius's shoulders went lax in a way that bespoke surprise. He didn't answer straight away, but that wasn't a no, it was the sheen of something in his eyes for a moment, his voice too froggy for speech til he cleared it with a cough. 'Yeah,' he said huskily. 'I'd like that. If you don't mind the office.'

'S'good.' Harry rubbed the toe of his shoe in the dirt. 'I... miss being all right with you.'

'Me too, you.' Sirius ducked his head, his dark hair swinging to hide his face momentarily. He thrust out a hand. 'All right, then?'

'All right,' Harry agreed with relief, shaking it firmly. 'And the rest of it...'

'There is no rest of it,' Sirius said, looking him straight in the eye then.

Maybe he'd overheard, when Harry said it to Tonks earlier. Maybe Tonks had told him what Harry'd said to her. Maybe he'd come around. Maybe Sirius had just realised it had all gone too far, with the article, with the Forest, with Umbridge all too ready to use any weapon handed to her. Harry hoped. But in that moment, it didn't matter. It was good.

'Come on, then,' Tonks said, and led them up the hill to Hogwarts.


	13. Ysbrydnos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which The Spirit And The Night Unite._

'Igor,' said Snape, all silky tone and bland smile.

Karkaroff was no idiot. He saw through that straight away, and put his hand on his wand. 'Severus,' he replied, putting on a thin smile of his own.

'Looking forward to today's Task? I trust your students are well prepared.'

'My students would not dare be anything less than well prepared.' Karkaroff's smile grew, turning nasty. 'I hope  _your_ students are well prepared for the shame of losing to mine.'

'We shall see,' Snape said distantly, and that appeared to be that. Karkaroff removed his hand from his weapon, evidently satisfied no fight was in the offing after all, and strode past with his furred robe swirling about the heels of his boots. 'But perhaps you'd like to put a little money where your mouth is, old friend?'

Karkaroff stilled. 'You are no friend of mine.'

'Nor banker nor lender. But something is owed, surely.'

'Nothing is owed to a traitor!'

'Traitor?' Snape echoed the word as if it were a mere curiosity, something foreign he'd never heard before. 'An interesting accusation from a man who named as many of his fellows as it took, to keep himself out of Azkaban.'

'There was nothing left to betray when I provided some small amount of information to the Aurors.' Karkaroff about-faced, baring his teeth at the man who stared him down from the shadows. 'But you, Severus? You turned away from him at the height of his power. You brought him down from within.'

'Try again, Igor. Pick something I'm not immensely proud of doing.'

'Proud? You should be petrified.' Karkaroff used his superior height to intimidate, trapping Snape against the wall with one arm and leaning in, the bush of his oiled beard out-thrust at Snape's long nose. 'Leave the safety of these walls,' Karkaroff suggested dangerously, 'and let us see how proud you are.'

'Likewise.' Snape smiled that bland smile again. 'One question, before you go: does it burn, I wonder?'

'What?'

'Your Mark. Does it burn?' Snape cocked his head, nothing more than that, but Karkaroff stood back from him as if stung, breathing suddenly in deep angry gulps. 'I'll take that as a yes. I was already quite sure it was you who set the Portkey that ensnared Harry Potter to the Forest. It had to be someone with means, motive, and opportunity. I wonder, when you pleaded your loyalty to Tom Riddle, did he extract a price for his great mercy? Ah. I see he did. What price will you pay for your failure?'

'Tsk,' said the dark man at Harry's side. Harry looked up, and the dark man shook his head, laying a cool hand on Harry's shoulder. 'You weren't meant to be here. Back to sleep for you, young man.'

'But,' Harry protested, gesturing futilely to the scene playing out before them, just up the corridor.

'No protests,' the dark man chided him firmly. 'Back to sleep you go, I won't have it.'

With a sigh, Harry obeyed, and let the dream fade away.

 

 

 

Harry woke with a start. A kitten was perched on his stomach-- at least til it tumbled off with a forlorn mewl. The sharp nip at his toes followed a moment later as the kitten gave a wobbly pounce and latched on with teeth and new claws.

'There you are, Sadie!' Neville scooped up the kitten by its scruff, setting it on his shoulder where it scrambled to balance. Soon it was nudging at Neville's jaw with a raw, rumbling purr, and Neville stroked its piebald fur with a soft smile. Harry flopped back to his pillow, saving his scolding for another time when there was something less defeatingly cute happening.

His eyes were closed for exactly ten seconds before his alarm went off. With a sigh, Harry rolled out of bed, giving the little clock a practised bop that shut that infernal noise down for another morning, and shuffled off to the loo rubbing sand out of his eyes.

 

 

**

 

 

Somehow, September and October had been swept behind them, and All Hallows Eve had arrived. The students and staff of Hogwarts generally made much of the holiday-- it was a mainstay of wizarding culture across the United Kingdom-- much to the bemusement of their Muggleborn and foreign brethren. Hogwarts was festooned with autumn wreaths, carved jack-o-lanterns, a bevy of orange and black and spooky spiderwebs and haunted organ music which seemed to issue from nowhere and everywhere at once. A home-spelled fancy dress contest saw Harry surrounded in classes by girls in Transfigured cat ears and whiskers or fairy wings that fluttered with iridescent sheen; boys in long white beards strutting about pretending to be Merlin or Godric Gryffindor and even a few Grindelwalds; Cedric and Cho came as mated unicorns with diamond horns and shimmering white robes, emitting a faint aura of gold and goodness which instantly propelled them to a win in the couples category. There were, to Harry's intense embarrassment, no less than seven Harry Potters, and to his great confusion he won third place without having dressed up at all. 'Aw, nuts,' Fred sighed, pushing up the spectacles he'd borrowed from Percy for his Harry costume. 'I knew I hadn't got the hair right.'

The crowning event of the day was, of course, the feast, but Harry had other things on his mind than giggling over barbequed bat wings, bedevilled eggs, cauldron curry, pumpkin pasties and shortbread witches' fingers. The Second Task was scheduled to begin just after dinner, and Harry had been trying in vain all day to ignore his growing nerves. The Great Hall was at double capacity, Tournament ticketholders crammed in and all in high spirits. A performance of spooky tunes by the school choir and band received rousing applause, though Harry hardly heard a note of it. The seventh year Newt-level Charms class put on a demonstration that drew oohs-and-ahhs from the avid audience, and were followed by an athletic mock-duel by the Durmstrang students including a stunning dive from the rafters by Viktor Krum on his broom, skimming so low up the long dinner tables that he was able to delicately pluck a candied apple from Blaise Zabini's hand at Slytherin and deliver it a moment later to a blushing Hermione at Gryffindor. Harry applauded mechanically, hardly aware of what Ron was grumbling none-too-quietly beside him. He could hardly eat a thing, despite his friends trying to coax him into it, and took to staring at the Head Table waiting for the professors to stop bloody chattering and just get on with it.

When Mr Crouch and Dumbledore  _finally_ arose and descended to the podium, Harry seized up tight in anticipation (and also the sudden realisation that he had to use the lav and that the time for that had undoubtedly passed). Dumbledore raised his hands, and the cheery light of the many sconces and candles dimmed, drawing everyone to an awed hush. Harry rubbed damp palms on his robe.

'And now,' Dumbledore said, 'I invite the fifteen competitors to join us here at the front. Come, children, come.'

They were to it. Harry stood, stumbling a bit on the bench as he clambered over it, tripping over his own feet like Tonks as he scurried across the stones to join the far end of the queue forming up front. He was not the youngest to reach the Second Task-- that went to Gabrielle Delacour, who had made it through the melee by fighting at her older sister Fleur's side-- but he was the smallest boy, to his chagrin, as he bookended the line of rather much taller and by and large better dressed wizards and witches he was expected to compete against in mere minutes. He wished he'd let Hermione spell the wrinkles from his robe after all, and tried to smooth them without drawing any more attention to it. He had also insisted on wearing his trainers, for reasons which had seemed perfectly logical when he was dressing in his dorm and now looked hopelessly juvenile beside the gleaming knee-high boots worn by the Dumstrang boys or the soft leather slippers donned by the Beauxbatons. Cedric had shed his unicorn cloak and now stood at attention looking serene and smiling slightly, nodding graciously to each of the other champions. Viktor said hello to Harry and Harry barely managed a grunt in return. He felt extremely jittery.

'The Second Task,' Dumbledore announced to all who waited with bated breath in the Hall, 'will take place tonight, under the gibbous moon, in the Forbidden Forest.' He waited for the gasps and cries of shock to die down. The champions, who after all had had their clues delivered after the melee and knew what to expect, stood stoic as the excitement of the crowd washed over them. 'Each of our doughty daredevils will be given an object to retrieve from the Forest and a set amount of time in which to retrieve it. Each shall have but one tool to assist them: their own wand. Each shall be set on a path within a territory which will prevent them from crossing paths with another competitor. Each shall venture, alone and with no guidance, into the Forest, there to remain until they have succeeded at their Task or until the dawn, when they shall be summoned to return.'

Spending the night in the Forest? Harry shuddered. It wasn't high on the list of things he'd have enjoyed doing.

Mr Crouch stepped up next, touching his wand to his throat to magnify his voice. 'The rules are as follows,' he said. 'One: There may be no assistance between competitors, nor are competitors to attack each other. Should competitors happen to cross each other in the Forest, they are under orders to part immediately. Two: There are no restrictions on the use of magic other than that which is outlawed or otherwise restricted by the Ministry. Three: Competitors are not permitted to leave the Forest unless they have retrieved their object or are summoned to return at first light. Aurors are standing by to guide their return with a Patronus should they become lost. Four: Competitors may avail themselves of anything they find in the Forest to aid in their search, but are warned that all is not as it seems within the woods, and any unforeseen consequences will be theirs to suffer til the Task ends nine hours from now.' He lowered his wand. As he stepped back, Harry caught the little wink Crouch directed his way and smiled jaggedly.

'It is my pleasure to introduce our judges,' Dumbledore went on. Harry listened with half an ear, devoting most of his attention to running through spells in his mind. He wasn't to be allowed his sword, and though he was sure of his wand after its excellent performance in the melee, but he already missed the surety of the harness and the sword's weight on his back. He threaded his fingers through the strings and amulets wrapped about his wand's hilt, trying to breathe deep for calm.

'All are welcome to pass the night here in the hall, where our friends from the Wizarding Wireless Network will broadcast their observations of the event. Those hearty souls which make it through the night awake will be escorted to the lawn at half five tomorrow morning, there to await our champions. For now, let us accompany our brave young men and women to the place of their challenge!'

Harry felt excruciatingly aware of every step, and yet it seemed he blinked and now was passing Hagrid's hut, headed for the imposing black expanse of the Forest. He let himself have one helpless inner cry of acknowledgment: he did not want to do this. He did not want to be in there, specially at night, specially without his sword. But it was going to happen whether he wanted to do it or not, so on he trudged, trying to look as though he did this every day and not like do a runner any moment. But conversely his nerves got worse when there was a significant amount of standing-about time when they queued up at a red ribbon strung between two posts-- they had to wait for their audience to catch them up, and it seemed that dignitaries wouldn't be hurried, at least til word of the large wine and punch buffet awaiting them got back and everyone arrived quick-step then so they could queue up for their own important event. Harry saw Hagrid waving, and managed to lift a shoulder a centimetre or so in reply, heard his friends calling his name as they unfurled a banner for him (and Cedric and Oliver and Angelina and the others from Hogwarts, but Harry's name was penned in first and it gave him a small jolt nonetheless).

'Harry.' It was Sirius, squeezing through the crowd with Tonks on his tail. He slung an arm about Harry's shoulders, to all appearances just wishing Harry luck, but under cover of their bodies he slid something into Harry's pocket. 'Emergency portkey,' he whispered against Harry's ear. 'If anything happens, if you feel you're in the least amount of danger, use it. It won't take you back to Hogwarts, it'll take you to Potter Manor, and Dobby'll lock you in safe and tight.'

'Oh-- why?'

'Farther is better,' Tonks said succinctly. 'When we get the alert, we'll surround you with Aurors. And there's a third of the Corps here tonight to monitor the Forest, since we didn't get permission to bring the Dementors past the perimetre.'

'I'd just as soon not meet a Dementor out there as a Death Eater,' Harry said, a bit put out at being blamed for that. Tonks rolled her eyes, but gave his hair a swipe.

'For luck,' she said, and kissed his cheek, leaving a smudge of purple lipstick, and grinning at Harry's blush. 'See you in the morning, Li'l Bit.'

'I'll be right here waiting,' Sirius promised, and let him go with a final squeeze.

'Mr Potter.'

It was Lucius Malfoy. Harry hadn't seen him since that day in the Forest, and it didn't particularly lift his mood to meet the man again even under better circumstances. Malfoy looked a bit pale, perhaps, but there was no other sign of the injury Harry had inflicted on him, and his elegant aplomb was unshaken. Draco was at his father's side, and so Harry could hardly say anything even were he so inclined. He managed what he thought to be a mature and civil inclination of the head, which, oddly enough, brought a smile to Malfoy's face. Malfoy returned the nod.

'Good luck,' Draco said. He moved to hug Harry, but stopped at something, scowling. He swiped at Harry's cheek fastidiously with a kerchief, which at least made Harry grin, his good humour finally restored. He pressed Draco's hand, and stuck the kerchief in his pocket.

At last, Mr Crouch was pushing his way through, and he carried his hat like a bowl with bits of parchment sticking up from it, and he went right down the line of champions, encouraging each to take their pick. Harry had put himself at the far end and so had no choice to make: there was only one scrap left, and he fished it out with a deep breath.

'Open it, son,' Mr Crouch advised softly. 'There's a lad. I have every faith in you, Mr Potter. You can do this.'

He would have to, or fail miserably in front of everyone. That thought hadn't worried him over the summer, as opposed to now, when it seemed a very distinct possibility. Harry unfolded the scrap, squinting to make out the dark ink in the flickering torchlight.

_Find that which seeks you._

'Well that's rubbish,' Harry muttered. 'Su Li, what did you get?'

'No cheating,' the Ravenclaw replied, edging away from Harry.

'It's not cheating, we're not supposed to go anywhere near each other out there, I just want to know what you got.'

'Hush,' Su Li insisted quellingly. With a heaving sigh, Harry shoved the parchment into his pocket atop Draco's kerchief and renewed his grip on his wand. Maybe it would make sense once he got doing the thing.

No time to worry about it. 'Ready!' Crouch was calling, where he stood at the ribbon, wand raised. 'On your mark! Set! Go!' He slashed down, and everyone about Harry took off running. 'Oh,' Harry said, and got his start belatedly, having not a single clue where he was meant to run to but figuring if he just followed the one ahead of him--

Ah. Someone had gone ahead, and helpfully put up signs. Harry swerved right to get to his, and discovered to his relief that his footprint in the loam of fallen leaves and cool dirt lit with magelight, and dozens of footsteps ahead of him, leading him off into the trees. Grateful for at least that much guidance, Harry set off at a jog, and didn't let himself look back to see the crowd disappear as the trees closed in.

Having grown up on the outskirts of a city, Harry had had little experience of nature when he first came to Hogwarts. The night sounds of a forest, Muggle or Magical, were as alien to him as Jupiter. There was little light to follow once the canopy of branches overhead hid the moon's light, and Harry, dry-mouthed, flicked his wand in a Lumos spell, holding it aloft to light his path. Find that which seeks you, eh? Well, so far as Harry understood the purpose of the Task, that wasn't likely to happen this near the edge of the woods. So he followed those lit footsteps, doing his best not to jump at every little chirp or flap or crack nearby, no matter how ominous it seemed every time. It wasn't so scary if he didn't let himself think of all the things that lived in the Forest; after all, the centaurs had turned out to be quite reasonable. Unicorns lived in the Forest, they were sweet-tempered, Remus had taught them last year, so long as you didn't try to take their horns or hoofs or silver tails. As for the more sinister beasties, well, he'd just stay clear of any spider monsters or werewolves or Death Eaters...

Something hooted. Harry jumped, craning his neck, and saw an owl overhead, watching from its perch on a branch. It had caught itself a nighttime snack, and ate the head off a mouse as Harry watched. Harry gagged and gave the bird a wide berth, wondering which witch or wizard it belonged to. He knew most owls were nocturnal and preferred to hunt at night, but he didn't particularly want to think about what they were hunting so soon after his own uneaten supper.

Oh no. He'd stepped off his path. The footsteps had vanished. Harry backtracked to where he thought he'd been when he'd seen the owl, but he must not have had it right because the magelight didn't re-appear. Bad, Harry assessed it. Very bad. Or maybe they hadn't been meant to lead him to a particular destination, only away from the other students so they wouldn't all be wandering the same bit of woods? He had no real sense of how far he'd come, and all the trees looked the same to him.

'Er... help?' he asked his wand, giving it a little shake. But it was only a wand, not the sword, and if it had any mind of its own, it wasn't in a sharing mood. It warmed to the touch, a friendly comfort, but it had no help to give otherwise.

Find what seeks you. How were you meant to seek anything if you didn't know what you were looking for? Harry stood dithering, digging a toe into the rotting leaves. Maybe it was all just a big game of sardines, and Harry was the one hiding whilst everyone sought him out. Lots of people were always after Harry, to do things for them, or because they wanted something to happen to him to make them look better, he supposed, but they all knew where to find him, as he famously spent his schooldays at Hogwarts and could generally be reached through his equally infamous guardian. He'd had hundreds, maybe even thousands of fan letters from people who just wanted to write to him, even if he never answered them. And he supposed the  _Prophet_ was always seeking him, as Harry was a reliable source of stories for their hungry readers. But he doubted any of the above were to be found in the Forbidden Forest, which left him no closer to a clue than before.

Well, worse come worse, they'd be coming to get him in the morning. If he got lost, at least he was guaranteed to be found this time, and he had the emergency portkey if worse came to the very absolute worst. Harry took a deep breath, and picked a direction at random.

How long he walked, he didn't know. Whenever he had a glimpse of the moon through the trees overhead, it never seemed to be moving, so perhaps it hadn't been all that long, but he did at last begin to tire. That in itself was not an indicator of much, he'd been tired all week trying to stay atop everything. But he was tired, and the cold was numbing him even through his warm hoodie and jeans beneath his robe. He yawned his way along, but once he let the yawning start his eyes started to close of their own accord, and it was a struggle to keep them open. He tried alternating, letting the left one rest and peering about for a path with the right, then switching. That worked for a while, but when he finally tripped over a root when both eyes happened to be closed and might in fact have been closed for quite some time, Harry thought it might be better to sit and rest a moment. Just a moment, five minutes at the most, and he would get back on the search, he would.

What he took to be an especially thick tree at first made him start. It was a hut of some sort, little more than four shabby walls and a roof mostly fallen in. It might have been mouldering out here for decades, even centuries. 'Hullo?' Harry called at it warily. There was no answer, but he cast a spell he'd learnt from Dumbledore last year,  _Homenum Revelio_ , meant to reveal any persons hiding nearby. There was no answering glow. Just in case he'd done it wrong, Harry cast it again. Nothing. Well, he hadn't been specially relishing a nap out in the open, had he? He supposed a bit of shelter was better than nothing. He pushed at the door, such as it was, just a few rotting boards, and poked his glowing wand in cautiously. It was bigger inside than out, a sure sign of wizarding habitation, but if anyone had lived here, it had been a long time ago. Harry picked his way across the uneven floor toward a rusted old iron bed. It was a miracle the mattress hadn't rotted away, or been colonised by any of the creatures of the Forest looking for a bed of their own. Harry sat gingerly, testing his weight on it carefully, and reckoned it would hold him. He wrapped his robe tighter about him, shivering. Should he risk it? He didn't like the idea of something following the smoke of a fire to find him sleeping, but, well-- he was meant to find what was seeking him, wasn't he? He aimed his wand at the crumbling bricks that had once been a hearth, and called for fire. He stared into the flickering flames, letting the warmth seep through him, and promised himself just a short rest, just a short while...

'Five minutes,' he mumbled, curling on his side in the bed and propping a hand under his head. There were ivy leaves on the mattress, and he shoved at them. One fluttered to the floor, and he closed his eyes as it twirled through the air, settling softly.

He dreamed.

He knew it was a dream the way you knew you could fly in your dreams; he just did. But it never occurred to him to wake up. In the dream, he rose from his bed, and went to the door, drawn by the Song. It was bright outside, but not the blaze of daylight: it was the huge bonfire in the clearing that lit the place as hot as the sun. It was the dancers who made the Song, singing in voices high and voices low and voices so sumptuous and wild no human boy had ever heard them before. All the creatures of the Forest had come. There were satyrs playing fiddle as they minced on hoofed hindquarters, runespoors hissing their accompaniment as they slithered through the stamping feet of the dryads who swayed gracefully as willows in the wind. Golems of clay and rock stamped about on malformed legs, but even they couldn't be clumsy at the Dance. Buckbeak the hippogriff snorted and flapped his great wings, and a unicorn foal whinnied and reared her joy, and Sioned the centaur had come too, her long hair loose and wild and her armour strung with flowers. The owl who had watched Harry earlier flew endless circles above the flames, a streak of ghostly white as he added his caw to the Song. There were golden hinds and mothmen, a harpy doing whirl-abouts with a minotaur, Fluffy the three-headed dog lolling all three tongues with doggy laughter, Fawkes was performing loop-de-loops over dwarves banging their drums and Dobby, Dobby was dancing as if he'd never known greater delight, and a dozen creatures Harry didn't know, couldn't know, all joined together in the Dance. 'Come!' they called Harry, and Harry stumbled toward them, drawn in with no thought in his head but that he must. Hands plucked at his robe and the flames of the bonfire licked out to taste him, but he only laughed. He felt invincible, immortal, he felt-- he felt so very much, and it grew and grew in him til he lifted his head and howled like a werewolf, just to let it out. His howl joined the Song and he joined the Dance, and for time outside of time he knew what it was to be part of everything.

'Your name,' Sioned told him, 'write your name, Harry,' Remus urged him, 'write your name just here like ours,' Griphook the goblin said, and Harry took the pen from him and wrote, in an ancient script he wouldn't have known awake but which came by instinct in the dream, he inked his name on the bit of parchment he'd been given by Mr Crouch, and Griphook took it in his clawed hands and wrapped it carefully about a rock. 'Throw it in,' his snake advised him, and Harry did, pitching the rock into the centre of the bonfire, where it was swallowed up by the flames. He laughed, and they all laughed with him, and then they were tugging at him, pulling him along with them, and Harry followed willingly to dance the night away.

The dark man watched him dance, and smiled at his antics.

 

 

 

There was light on his eyes. Harry grumbled into his arm, trying to ignore it, but it nagged at him. He wrinkled his nose, he flopped onto his stomach, he groaned and tried to slap off his non-existent alarm. None of it worked. There was nothing for it. He had to wake up.

'Urgh,' he groaned again, struggling to sit up. Every joint ached, his muscles pulled sore and achy, his spine and shoulders and neck all popped as he cracked them this way and that. He felt as if he'd been used as a bludger for a very thorough game of quidditch. 'Urrrrgh,' he groaned, forcing himself to his feet. It  _was_ light that had waked him. Dawn. He'd slept the night away. The Task was over, and he hadn't found whatever was seeking him.

So. That was it, then. He was out of the Tournament. He supposed he'd made it farther than he'd anticipated, when they'd been planning it all summer, and as far anyway as anyone had meant him to. But it was a strange thing. He wished he'd got a little bit farther than just the one Task. Well. He knew how to deal with disappointment, and there was plenty still to do the rest of the year, after all. He would just cheer on Viktor as he'd promised, and that was that.

Still, his feet were dragging as he left the hut behind.

In the grey haze of dawn, he could better see the clearing where he'd kipped for the night. It was rather large, steeply sloped to a shallow dip in the land, the mouth wide enough to admit the lavender glow of the rising sun through the hole in the trees above, to spark diamonds in the heavy drops of dew that hung from leaves and spider webs and trembled on every blade of grass. It clung to his trainers as he crossed the glen. It was a lovely place, really. Harry could almost forget how strange and dangerous the rest of the Forest was, if all he had ever seen of it was this secluded place.

Then he saw the ashes, and the dream came back to him.

He was shaken to his core. It couldn't have been real, could it? Yet those were the charred remains of logs enough for a goodly bonfire, and he remembered how it had flared far above his head, stretching toward the stars. He kicked apart the cinders and clods, knowing what he would find even as he couldn't quite bring himself to believe he would find it--

The rock. Still wrapped in a bit of singed parchment with his name on it. Harry stared at it for a long time before he bent to pick it up. It was just slightly warm, still, as if it had been hotted up in a fire all night.

Harry swallowed hard.

'Hoo,' called the owl overhead, and buried its head beneath a wing for a day's long sleep.

Harry wrapped the stone in the kerchief in his pocket. He tucked it carefully away. And then he turned to follow the Patronus that had appeared to fetch him, a quick-darting fox that returned to nip at his heels whenever he slowed too much.

The crowd that had come out to greet the champions was somewhat smaller than the one that had seen them off hours before. A few of Harry's fellow competitors appeared to have been there for a while, looking more alert and smug than those who came limping out of the Forest behind the glowing spectres that vanished back into Aurors' wands. Su Li looked utterly dejected as she emerged from the trees, Oliver grinning sheepishly and shaking his head at the anxiously waiting Percy. Angelina was one of the ones who'd made it out on her own power, but she seemed relieved to see Harry, waving happily. Rolvsson came trudging out of the Forest behind a Patronus of a peacock, looking weary but pleased enough; Durmstrang raised a cheer for him, and no few Hogwarts and Beauxbatons girls joined in. Fred and George exchanged glum glances and bent over their betting sheets, calculating intensely.

Harry's knights were there. They had waited all night, they told him in a chatter that crackled in his ears like fire. Ron told him how everyone else had done, but Harry was hardly hearing him. Hermione was asking him a battery of questions, he hardly could hear that, either; Neville and his kitten had puffy eyes and were sharing a flapjack, and Draco was looking intensely at Harry, grey eyes narrow and concerned. 'Come sit,' he said, or something like that, and Sirius had claim on some lawn chairs set up around a fire, but it was so like the dream that Harry shied away, refused to go near it no matter how Sirius tried to coax him. Ginny brought him a mug of hot pumpkin juice, and Harry found his hands shaking so hard he could barely hold it.

'Let the judgment commence!' Mr Crouch called out, and Ron gave Harry a little push to get him moving. Harry walked where the others were headed, to a table that had been set up for all the judges to sit in-- well, judgment. Mr Crouch guided the competitors to queue up, and Harry avoided being called up as was his habit, so found himself lingering last in line.

Dumbledore lifted both his arms high, and the crowd fell into a hush, excepting the two hosts from the WWN, whose eager murmur could now be heard in the quiet. 'We are glad to have you back with us, dear children,' Dumbledore greeted them with a warm smile that encompassed each in turn. Harry craned his head to look, biting at his lip. All the judges were looking very stern, if not outright hostile, like Mad-Eye Moody, who speared Harry with such a glare with his roving eye that Harry ducked back into place sharpish and kept his head down where it belonged. 'Each of you was given a task last night,' Dumbledore said, as if they'd managed to forget, or possibly for the benefit of those listening in on the radio. 'To retrieve a particular artefact. Each object was chosen by the Committee of Gaming and Competition; many represent the history of the British Isles, in honour of the host nation, and some come on loan to us from the International Confederation of Wizards. What is especially important, however, is that those of you who successfully retrieved your item will find it necessary for your future success in the Tournament. Your journey these past hours was but a preface for all the remaining tasks. Take care to learn all you can about your precious talismans, Champions, for they may well be the key to winning the Triwizard Cup!

'Please come forward, Cedric Diggory,' Dumbledore beckoned, and Cedric took a deep breath and strode forward to be interviewed.

'And did you find what you sought?' Mr Crouch asked him.

'I did, sir,' Cedric replied, and laid a large bundle of cloak on the table. He drew back the edges, and all in sight of it gasped, whispers rippling back.

'It appears to be a shield,' one of the radio hosts said excitedly.

'The Shield of Evalach,' confirmed a woman at the table, who leant over to examine it with a glass held to her eye, and nodded her satisfaction. 'This shield was borne by Sir Galahad of King Arthur's court. The red cross is said to have been painted with the blood of Joseph of Arimathea, a keeper of the Holy Grail. This shield will protect you in dire danger, young man. Well done.'

Cedric wore a look of growing awe. He handled the shield even more carefully as he picked it up, and Dumbledore helped him settle it on his arm, giving him a quiet word of encouragement. Photographers from all the newspapers were there when Cedric turned, and even Harry could see what a lovely picture it made, Cedric standing tall and humble as he held that wondrous shield. Harry clapped as hard as everyone else when the audience burst into applause for him.

'Please come forward, Magnus Rolvsson,' Dumbledore called next.

Rolvsson managed a bit of a strut, his confidence restored now he had an audience to appreciate it. With overmuch ceremony, he threw off his furred cloak, dropping it carelessly to the dirt, and revealed the cape he had added beneath it. 'Ahh, the leviathan hide!' a judge exclaimed, coming around the table to touch it for himself, spreading it wide and admiring the leathery length. 'Impenetrable to all weapons,' he confirmed to Rolvsson. 'Rare and remarkable.'

And so it went. Those who had not managed to locate their artefact were still told what it had been, and Oliver's disappointment at missing out on the Talaria, the winged sandals once worn by Hermes that let him fly without a broom, was palpable, as was Gabrielle Delacour, who had not been able to find the lyre of Orpheus, which played so beautifully it could drown out all other sound. Viktor had successfully tracked down the Fail Not bow carried by Tristan of Cornwall, which had never missed a shot til his heart was broken by Iseult. Angelina had retrieved a selkie skin which would allow her to slip beneath the waves of any body of water without having to breathe as a human. Su Li would have had the Mead of Poetry, which allowed anyone who drank it to answer any question-- perfect for a Ravenclaw, Harry thought, and quite understood the crestfallen expression Su Li wore as she ran from the judges' table to be comforted by her friends. Esmee Roux had found Ariadne's Red Thread, a ball of string that would always lead you home; she had already used it to mark her path out of the Forest, and had been the first to make it back. Adrian Pucey of Slytherin would have had a genie's lamp, had he been able to climb out of a mudpit that had nearly swallowed him whole, but for the intervention of the Aurors when the dawn Patronus had located him and sent for aid. The two other Durmstrang wizards had missed out on the Cauldron of the Dagda, which, bottomless, never left anyone unsatisfied, and a pot of leprechaun gold far more precious that that which the goblins of Gringotts valued. Fleur proudly displayed a necklace worn by the Lady of the Lake, which made its wearer unfathomably loved, but the remaining witch and wizard from Beauxbatons had not succeeded in finding Lugh's slingshot or the Ring of Dispel. Then it was just Harry, who had watched the queue get shorter and shorter and found himself wiping damp palms repeatedly.

'Please come forward, Harry Potter,' Dumbledore summoned him, and Harry went.

The judges were all watching him avidly as he laid his rock on the table. It didn't look near as impressive as the magical and legendary things the other champions had found, and in fact it was so small Harry had the impression most of the audience couldn't see what it was and had begun to rumble, thinking Harry had not found anything at all and was about to be dismissed. It was Mad-Eye Moody, then, who stood, stumping around the table to loom over Harry, staring him down for a long, intimidating minute before he scooped up the rock and unwrapped it from the paper.

'The adder stone,' he said, and word of it went racing back, an echo that repeated and repeated in a wave til everyone had heard it. 'That's right, Potter,' the Auror added casually, giving the stone a little toss in his palm. 'You're a Parselmouth.'

'Yes,' Harry agreed softly, suddenly quite sure Moody did not like him, and had seen fit to very deliberately remind the several hundred hanging on his every word and the who knew how many thousands at home listening via the radio that Harry did indeed have that most unfortunate gift.

'Do you know what an adder stone is, Potter?'

'No. Sir.'

'Some people call them hag stones or druids' glass. Used to ward against disease or evil charms. Prevents nightmares. And reveals traps and disguises. Better late than never, I suppose.' Moody set the stone down hard on the table. Without a word further, he returned to his seat, leaving Harry to take up the stone and retreat to stand with the other champions, scurrying past the stunned photographers who forgot to catch a snap of him til he was already gone. By the time they recovered themselves enough to lift their cameras, Harry contrived to hide behind the shelter of Cedric's large shield, stuffing the rock deep into his pocket and wrapping his arms tight about his chest.

'Forget him,' Cedric said, just between the two of them.

'Yeah,' Harry answered, hunching his shoulders up about his ears. He told himself he was only cold, and sore, and wanted a hot shower and a long rest.

'Hey,' Cedric added, giving Harry a nudge with an elbow. 'We made it to the next round! Smile, eh?'

'Yeah,' Harry said, and forced one to his lips.

 

 

 

The celebration spilled over to breakfast, something Harry had missed when he'd gone straight to bed after the last Task. The amount of food being packed away by hungry ticketholders was truly appalling; the house elves must have been working straight through the night to feed so many so much. Entire vats of pumpkin juice, tea, fresh pressed French coffee, and thick Turkish coffee for those who preferred it roughly the consistency of tar were filled, emptied, and filled again. Innumerable eggs spilled over platters and vanished from plates moments later. Pancakes with honey, sour cream, and bright pots of preserves appeared as fast as they could be flipped and disappeared just as rapidly. Croissants with fresh fruit filled the air with buttery baking scents, and the pain au chocolat were a particular favourite of the younger students, who all walked about with dark stains on their lips and fingertips that were happily licked clean. Those who desired a typical English breakfast colonised the tables to tuck into mounds of sausages, fried mushrooms, slabs of gammon and thick rashers of bacon that must have been the sacrifice of a county's worth of pigs. Hermione was bustling about with a petition to ban meat at Hogwarts in one hand and a sack of kittens to be adopted in the other. Neither was going very well.

As he sometimes did, Harry found himself a quiet corner away from the racket where he could hear himself think. He wasn't much of a one for crowds, much preferring the regulated volume of a conversation between friends, not the shouting to be heard in the rafters that was occurring now with so many people stuffed into the Great Hall and intent on stuffing themselves. He had another mug of hot pumpkin juice, but demurred when his friends tried to tempt him with food. Though he'd barely eaten at dinner, he hadn't the slightest appetite.

'Perhaps a bit of toast and Marmite, Mr Potter?' Umbridge had found him. Harry looked up when she thrust a plate beneath his nose. 'I hear Muggles are terribly fond of it.'

'Er, not really,' Harry said. Marmite had indeed graced every breakfast table at Crowhill, but at the moment the yeasty, bitter aroma turned his stomach.

'Oh, but I insist you eat something, young man, you are so very fragile,' Umbridge crooned, just loud enough to catch the attention of a gaggle of press standing nearby. They had been exchanging notes on the Task, never noticing they had a champion seated nearby, but they heard that and pounced as one like vultures.

'Potter! Is it true you were attacked in the Forest?'

'Any comment on the relative safety of private school ground versus Ministry-operated facilities?'

'Did you have a chaperon in the Forest last night, Harry?'

'What's your guardian Lord Potter think of you going alone into the Forest after what happened last time? Does he trust you alone?'

'Potter, show us the adder stone, mate! Give us a good snap now.'

'Would've been more useful facing down that basilisk, wouldn't it've been, huh?'

'Potter, who do you expect to win the Tournament?'

'Harry, any words for all your fans out there?'

And, worst of all, an all-too-familiar voice, which cried, 'HARRY! Ha-HA, fancy meeting me here at our old haunts, eh?'

Harry's Knights closed ranks on him promptly, blocking Gilderoy Lockhart just as he made a lunge to muss Harry's hair. He got crunched fingers instead when his hand rebounded off Cedric's shield. 'That bloody hurt,' Lockhart hissed, before plastering on a vapid smile for the benefit of the curious reports crowded all round them. 'Is that any way to greet an old friend, Harry?' he wheedled.

'We're not friends,' Harry said flatly. 'You attacked my friends and family last year.'

Lockhart pulled an exaggeratedly tragic face. 'What man can resist the power of the Imperius Curse, Harry? Alas, I could not prevent myself, to my everlasting regret. I can only be glad I was able to stay my hand when I faced you in the Chamber--'

'You didn't face me, and you just said you couldn't stop yourself.' Harry thrust himself to his feet. 'I'm going,' he told his _actual_ friends, and fully intended to slip away without them so they could enjoy the feast without worrying after him, but as one they followed, surrounding Harry like a personal guard and staunchly refusing his stuttered attempts to be shed of them.

'I brought enough for snacks later,' Ron said, hefting a napkin bursting with food.

'We should get started reading up on your adder stone,' Hermione said, equally predictable.

'Cho's already headed to the Library, let's go meet her there,' Cedric agreed. 'Would you help me look up some books on the shield, Hermione?'

'Maybe you would help me too?' asked a quiet voice behind them, and they turned to find Viktor Krum had followed them out of the Hall. 'No comment,' he said.

Harry blinked. 'Sorry-- what?' 

'To the press. When they ask you so many questions like that. You say "No comment".'

'Does that work? It makes them go away?'

Viktor wobbled a hand in the air. 'No,' he said.

Abruptly Harry laughed. Then the laugh became a helpless giggle, the kind that made everyone else laugh with you, and so they all stood there in the hall snickering into their hands, even Draco, who held out the longest and rolled his eyes at them all til at last he fell prey, which only made everyone else laugh all the harder. It felt good to laugh. It was the best Harry'd felt in a while, really.

'Come on, then,' Harry invited Viktor, sure of his decision. 'There's a group of us who revise together-- study, that is-- it started off as Latin Revision and now it's... well, I'll tell you all of it later. I'd like it if you'd join us.'

Viktor's shy grin was answer enough.

 

 

 

It turned out Harry had good advice to give, as Hermione and Cho prowled the Library gathering an intimidatingly large stack of books for them. His months of carrying a sword nearly as big as he was had taught him a number of tricks for dealing with large, unwieldy, weapons that couldn't be left laying about. He promised to write to Dobby, who had proved inventive with sheaths and harnesses, and ask if Dobby would come up with something for Viktor and Cedric's new toys.

'I haff never used a bow before,' Viktor said, slowly stroking the dark grain of the wooden bow. 'I will need to find arrows, I think.'

'I've never used a shield, either,' Cedric shrugged. 'I thought it was metal, at first, but it's leather stretched over wood, see? But hardened somehow. I don't know what they would have used to make it. I've heard that some ancient goblin weapons were coated in a kind of, of shellac or something, something impossibly hard to ensure their weapons would never break. I wonder if that's what's on this?'

'It's so cool,' Ron admired it. 'You and Harry should practise in Defence! And you too, Krum,' he added, trying to sound offhand. Viktor's presence in their group had given Ron the courage to talk directly to him finally-- well, slightly to his left, as if he had got as close as he could and could go no further.

'Here!' Hermione heaved a truly barbaric number of books onto the table. There were even more floating behind her, and she directed them with a swish of her wand. Cho came with yet a third stack. Harry couldn't even see over them all. 'We're lucky there's so many sources,' Hermione said brightly. 'Some of this will be just myth, of course, but you never know what will be useful for the next Task!'

Harry rested his chin atop one of the stacks, drumming his fingers on the table. The adder stone sat before him. In the dream, it had been just a rock, but now in the bright light streaming from the tall Library windows he could see how the stone seemed like tightly coiled loops, and burrowed through the centre was a small hole about the width of his thumb. It did look like a snake all curled up. It wasn't very big, small enough to fit in his palm, smooth in places and rough in others, with a sharp bit that could probably cut if he used it as an edge. He could probably string it as a necklace, but he didn't like things pulling at his neck. He could thread it onto his wand, like the other little stones and the phoenix feather. Yes. He would do that. Then Umbridge couldn't take it away from him, nor anyone else.

'What did your notes say?'

Cedric turned back to him from the book he'd just opened. 'Our notes?'

'The paper you drew from Mr Crouch's hat. What did yours say?'

'It was a rhyme. Something like "It is not round but square, in virtue is fair..."' Cedric shrugged. 'I don't remember the rest. I used it out in the Forest, anyway. I transfigured it into a bird to fly overhead and warn me of obstacles.'

'Clever,' Cho said, smiling at him. They squeezed hands.

'What about yours?' Harry asked Viktor. Viktor had been getting it out as Cedric answered, and was able to show Harry immediately. 'That's not English, then.'

'Bulgarian,' Viktor said, quirking one of his heavy brows. 'It tells to find this flower, that stone, yes? A map of words.'

'It led you right to it?'

'Right to a nest of gryffin chicks,' he said dryly. 'They bite.' He pulled back the sleeve of his woollen coat to show deep scratches on his forearm.

'You're bleeding,' Hermione cried, bending over him. 'You should go to the infirmary, Viktor.'

'It is all right. It does not hurt.'

'But you might scar if you don't treat it!'

'I haff heard that ladies like scars,' Viktor told her solemnly. He canted a glance at Harry. 'True, yes?'

That gave everyone the giggles again, and Madam Pince came storming over to boot them out of the Library for being disruptive. That more or less broke up their gathering; it was now mid-morning and none of them had slept. ('Much,' Hermione needled Ron, who blushed as he admitted he may have rested his eyes for a couple of hours after midnight.) So off they went, choosing the Gryffindor dorms as their next destination, and they had a lazy afternoon just resting in the common room, chatting idly and working on bits of homework. Harry finished off an essay with an effort sure to earn him a Troll, but couldn't bring himself to care. As the dinner hour neared he contented himself resting on one of the couches, a bevy of pillows propped up behind his back, browsing the many books Hermione had picked out for him without absorbing much of it.

'Halloween,' he said.

Neville looked up from the game he and Draco were playing with chocolate frog cards. 'Pardon?'

'Last night. It was Halloween night. So today is Calan Gaeaf. The first day of winter.'

'Clallen what now?' Draco asked, flipping a card and taking a pair of Neville's from the carpet.

'Calan Gaeaf. It's Welsh.' Harry lifted the book he was skimming. 'There's lots of different names for it, obviously. That's just the Welsh one. "In Wales, children and women dance around a village fire and, during this process, everyone writes their names on rocks and..."'

'Harry?'

I did that, he was thinking. In the dream that had maybe not been a dream. The scrap of parchment was still in his pocket, the scrap on which he'd written his name. He swallowed down a suddenly dry throat.

'Write their names on rocks and put them in the fire. When the fire dies out, they all run home.' He attempted to lighten his tone. 'If they stay, "Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta" comes to devour their souls. A tailless black sow with a headless woman.'

'No thank you,' Neville shuddered.

'I can think of scarier things.' Harry turned the page, gnawing at his lower lip. 'In Mexico they call it Día de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. "It is believed that the Gates of Heaven open up at midnight on 31 October and the souls of children return to Earth to be reunited with their families for twenty-four hours."'

'Weird.'

'Mm.' But Harry's eyes strayed back to the page about Wales, caught by a memory. Ivy leaves.

_On Calan Gaeaf, children may practise the tradition of Eiddiorwg Dalen, or the summoning of prophetic dreams. Girls should take a wild rose grown into a hoop, hop through it three times, cut it in silence, and go to bed with it under their pillow. Boys should cut ten ivy leaves, throw away one, and put the rest under their head before you sleep, and the dreams will flow._

Ivy leaves. There had been ivy leaves on the bed in that hut. And he had dreamed that dream, the dream that might not have been a dream, and now he had the adder stone and he was-- what? Ready for the next task, he supposed. More than that, he didn't know, and maybe wouldn't ever know unless Dumbledore decided to tell him about the prophecy after all. If the one had anything to do with the other.

'Harry? You coming to dinner?'

He had nearly dozed off. Harry rubbed at his eyes beneath his lenses and let his glasses settle back into place. 'Tired,' he said, or yawned, rather, his jaw popping as it stretched to accommodate. 'Reckon I'll stay here.'

'You have to eat.' Draco shoved Harry's legs into the back cushions and sat at his knees. 'I don't want to sound like all the others, but I will if you make me. You have to eat, Harry.'

'Don't,' Harry told him shortly, sitting up and pulling his knees up to his chest. At least Draco had picked his moment-- everyone else was on their way out the portrait hole, and no-one had lingered by the hearth to hear their conversation. 'It's nothing to do with that rubbish,' Harry said. 'I'm all right, really. I'll eat enough for ten men or one Ron in the morning.'

'Promise me you will.'

Harry relented, but only because he could see Draco really was worried. 'I will,' he swore, reaching out to hook Draco's small finger with his. Draco didn't seem to know what he meant by it, blinking and slightly red-cheeked, so Harry let go after a moment. 'Did you notice what I did?' he deflected. 'About the notes.'

Draco cleared his throat. 'What notes?'

'The notes they gave us for the Task, that told us what to search for in the Forest. Viktor's was in Bulgarian. And mine wasn't at all like theirs.' Harry fished it out of his pocket, and held it out for Draco's examination. 'They weren't random draws,' Harry said. 'They couldn't have been.'

'Good deduction,' Draco acknowledged. 'What's it mean, though, if they meant you all to get certain things?'

'Dumbledore said we'll use them in the next Task, or maybe all of them, if it could determine who wins.' Harry smoothed the burnt parchment flat over his knee. 'They seem especially suited to us,' he said then. 'So I reckon they want us to be good at using them, to use them to the best of our ability, and no-one's disadvantaged over the others by sheer chance. I just don't know why the show of having us draw straws, then.'

'Maybe nothing. Maybe just for the show of it, so all the people watching have something to gossip about. They're still selling tickets to the final events, after all.'

Harry sighed. With a shrug, he gave this one thing more up to the future, with all the other unknowns and unsolveables. He would learn the truth of it or he wouldn't, and meanwhile it didn't seem to change much, so he'd turn his attention to other things. Like sleep. 'I'm for bed,' he said, pushing himself off the couch. He rolled his head, rewarded by several more pops and cracks as bones shifted back into place. 'I slept in a hut last night,' he confided. 'You would have hated it. No silk sheets, no turn down service.'

'Sounds perfectly horrid,' Draco said pompously, and stood as well. 'You're really all right, Harry?'

Was he? He hardly knew anymore. 'Good night,' he said, and left Draco watching after him til he turned the round of the stairs.

 

 

 

Neville's kitten was in his bed again. It seemed quite fond of nibbling Harry's toes. Harry gave it a nudge, rolled away to defend himself, and finally tossed his pillow to the foot of the bed, earning an indignant squawk. Soon the little beast was curled up on it, giving itself a vigorous, and loud, wash. Harry buried his face in the mattress, grumbling.

'Go back to sleep, Harry,' the dark man said, and Harry did.

 


	14. Time Flies Like An Arrow, Fruit Flies Like A Banana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which It Is Unwise To Waste Time On Explanations._

The story of the time turner is this.

A mage in Turkey was the first to discover time travel by Apparation, transporting himself from the site of a fire in his laboratory and appearing across the village in the ice cellar of the local lord. For breaking and entering, the mage was deprived first of liberty and, after an investigation which determined there was no fire and he could not have broken into the cellar without mystically appearing within it by magic, the mage was summarily deprived of his life as well. A century later and halfway across the world, a Peruvian hedgewitch charged with minding her mistress's children threatened to crack the knuckles of a boy who'd just broken a valuable vase, only to have him vanish on a wail. He reappeared in the garden a moment later, claiming to have been on the roof for hours. His mother, intrigued by this unexpected use of accidental magic, determined to replicate the thing. It was she who discovered the conditions required for time travel, and so named it.

The corporeal effect of magic was obvious, of course, but this form of Apparation proved the element of time is permeable and, therefore, malleable. Magic directly affecting time appeared to be mostly accidental, requiring great emotional upset and a surge in the magical core, suggesting it was sufficient power, not sufficient understanding, that was needed to travel across time. And the window for such travel appeared to be limited-- a few hours at most. It was her attempt to define that window that sent her back a full day, and the drain on her magic was so great it destroyed her. Her granddaughter would find her notes many years later, and take up the experiment. Wary of repeating the same mistakes, the granddaughter attempted to bolster her magical power with an outside source. She tested an array of magical stones and metals and found that bronze produced the most reliable results. It was the work of a lifetime determining why. Over the decades, it became something of a family project, and succeeding descendants narrowed down the most useful traits-- circular, ringed, but not worn on the hands-- that resulted in hands being left in different times than the bodies they were meant to be attached to-- until Elutheria the Humble submitted her research to the newly formed Wizards' Council, who promptly issued Law of Magic Number Seven restricting the use of time magic, and seized her research in the bargain.

Despite attempts to suppress it, word of the time turner escaped the Council's hold. It is, perhaps, inevitable, that intent never outlasts the potential to turn a thing to evil purposes. The Dark Lady Hilda of Wessex immolated sixteen guardsmen and blew out the walls of the London dungeon in which the original time turner was kept. She seized it and used it some two dozen times over the course of the following year, causing a spate of disappearances of allies of Cyndeyrn, later to be known as Saint Mungo. When Mungo at last defeated Hilda, he chose to keep the time turner rather than return it to the dubious care of the Wizards' Council. The time turner was distributed with the rest of his belongings when Mungo at last passed in his old age, dying in the bath at the ripe old age of one hundred twenty six; the apprentice who received it did not at first recognise the treasure for what it was. The knowledge might have been lost had not Jocelyn of Furness taken it upon himself to document Celtic histories for the Norman invaders in the vain hope it would inspire admiration and sympathy for those they had conquered. That, obviously, was not a goal he achieved, but he did make the connection between the Dark Lady and the time turner, and the publication of his hagiography of Saint Mungo revived scholastic interest in time travel. Elutheria's work received renewed attention, but it wasn't until the practises of mining and refining progressed to produce purer metals that time travel became widely possible. Within a few centuries, time turners were available for as little as a six or seven florins in Diagon Alley.

All went swimmingly til 1605, when a wizard associated with Guy Fawkes had a patriotic change of heart when he watched, horrified, as Fawkes succeeded in assassinating King James, and used a time turner to go back and avert it. Though he had cause to be thankful, James was of a religious nature and had long believed witchcraft to be the devil's playground. James had instigated the trials and torture of a hundred witches, and was in no mood to appreciate that his life had just been saved by magic. He ordered the Wizards' Council to enforce stricter regulation over wizardkind. Relations between the King and the Council soured the more James tried to interfere in matters the Council had long considered their own purview. Soon, James saw magic behind everything-- he blamed witches for summoning a storm to drown he and his wife at sea, became convinced wizards were melting wax effigies of him to sicken him, that covens were meeting in churches to perform wicked rituals. He was determined that these crimes against his person, highest treason, would not escape punishment. For the rest of his reign, James aggressively pursued witchcraft, executing hundreds in his zeal. The deluded king's witch trials had no little impact on the decision to issue an International Statute of Secrecy, thus severing relations between Wizardkind and Mugglekind for ever after.

The craft of time travel was honed, here and there, with staggering progress through the years. Time turners were standardised, produced under controlled conditions and with an hour-limiting charm when Saul Croaker published a study concluding the risks of irrevocably altering the timeline rose exponentially with each hour a wizard travelled back, and distribution was limited to those who could demonstrate purely academic need or to those who could afford a substantial bribe. The deregulatory fervor of the 1970s changed everything. The administration of Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins undertook a substantial reorganisation of the Ministry, inadvertently removing the restrictions on time magic when separating the Temporal Distortion Subsection from the Misapplication of Magic and reassigning it to Events and Phenomena under the Department of Magical Transportation, a non-investigatory unit which produced annual reports to a supervisory committee with the occasional strongly-worded recommendation. Their recommendation that time turners be the reserve of qualified experts went unimplemented, and a cache of three hundred ninety eight time turners were made available to the public via an application and minimal processing fee.

A time turner was signed out to one Granger, Hermione Jean in September, 1993 for Uses: Academic Research (Approved) and Experimentation (Requiring Co-Approval of the Improper Use of Magic Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the lone witch staffing the Alternative Ways and Means Office in the Department of Magical Transportation). This particular time turner had a storied history. A 1972 recommendation by the Temporal Distortion Subsection had suggested studying whether previous uses of a magical object accumulated a unique magical signature, but a lack of funding mooted that objective. Whether it did or didn't affect the time turner's magical signature, it just so happened this time turner had been used for a seventh year extra-credit project by Elphias Doge; by Niall Cacklecharm for some unsanctioned attempts to win over his beloved by repeating the same day over and over; and by Inga Erminlinda to perfect her Wit-Sharpening Potion without having to purchase costly ingredients for multiple concoctions. It had also been signed out to one Potter, James Fitzworme, part of a brief and ultimately disbanded Auror Corps squad who attempted to use time travel to intercept and arrest Dark wizards before crimes could be, in fact, committed. A number of suits before the Wizengamot argued that by averting the crime, the Aurors were in effect removing criminal culpability, as no Auror could produce hard proof that any wizard apprehended in such an incident would not have decided of their own free will not to commit that crime, whether induced by the sudden appearance of well-armed hit wizards or not. No record had ever been created tracking the number of instances in which this particular time turner, nor indeed any time turner, had been used, but in Hogwarts' first term of 1993 it had racked up well over a hundred uses by the day Granger, Hermione Jean used it to jump back five hours and barge in on Lord Potter in the midst of his liquid lunch.

'Help,' the girl gasped out, and flung herself into Sirius Black's arms weeping.

 

 

**

 

 

'I'd like to discuss your relatives,' Umbridge said.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath through the nose and release it slowly through the mouth. It was a meditation technique Cedric had taught them, and Harry had had occasion lately to be grateful. Specially during the three hours of his week reserved for Remedial Studies with Dolores Umbridge.

The momentary evening of the power balance between them following Harry's victory over his meals had been just that-- momentary. Umbridge hadn't been set back for long, and he was paying for his temerity now with her renewed focus on 'counselling' him. 'You are a very troubled young man,' she would repeat ad nauseam, and Harry was beginning to agree with her. His many troubles all began with 'U'.

'I don't talk about them,' Harry said, when he could say it calmly.

'The very reason you must, Mr Potter.' Umbridge added several spoonfuls of pink sugar crystals to her tea, stirring daintily. 'They are Muggles, I believe I've read?'

'Yes, Professor.' He could hardly deny it. The  _Prophet_ had long ago exposed that secret, and Harry had spoilt it himself by many times referencing his Muggle upbringing. But talking about his Muggle upbringing was not the same thing as admitting he had not, in fact, been raised by his relatives, and Harry watched warily as that line in the sand drew nearer and nearer.

'As your father was a Pureblood, I can only assume they are your mother's relations.'

Yet another line in the sand. Harry did not enjoy talking about bloodlines any more than he enjoyed talking about Crowhill. 'Yes,' he said, not a little belligerently.

'An aunt, I believe? Your mother's sister.' At this Harry stubbornly kept his jaws tightly locked. Umbridge smiled at him as she sipped her tea. It made her eyes squidge up, narrowed and laser focussed on Harry. 'Her name appears on the school's visitor register,' she told Harry sweetly. 'Your first year.'

He couldn't deny it. He didn't affirm it for her, either, gripping his hands to fists in his robe. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.

'A lovely name, as I recall.' Umbridge shuffled a few papers on her desk, though her gaze didn't leave Harry. 'Petunia. Ah, yes. Petunia Dursley, and accompanying her was one Dudley Dursley. Your cousin.' She sipped her cup, and paused thoughtfully. 'I confess,' she mused, 'a bit of puzzlement at this. The transfer of your custody from your blood relations to a man completely unrelated to you--'

'It's complicated,' Harry interjected.

'Far too complicated for me, I'm afraid,' she said, with a little giggle that was perhaps meant to convey her so-called puzzlement, but instead rang sinister in his ears. 'Preceding your adoption by your godfather, who had no prior claim on custody outside his friendship with your father, which is hardly legally binding.'

Sirius had had the entail. But telling that story was indeed far too complicated-- how Remus had used the entail to do an end-run around Wizarding law and got the goblins to approve it instead. Goblins didn't much care whether Wizarding law acknowledged two men who had taken vows to each other-- all they cared about was that consent had been given, and so two teenagers on the verge of devoting themselves to a war on the Dark had sworn an oath to love so long as they lived, and that was all was needed for the goblins to approve Remus's claim to the entail through Sirius. That Sirius was, at that point, an escaped convict as yet not proved innocent had been beside the point. That Remus, a werewolf with few legal rights of his own, could not actually do anything with the entail was rather more problematic; so his father, now officially recognised as Sirius's father-in-law, did the deed for him and had adopted the Potter name, wiping the Lupins out of existence and giving Harry a family and a home in one fell swoop. A Potter, however tenuously, outranked a blood relative, and so when Sirius had cleared his name at last he'd moved quick to formalise things before the Dursleys, or anyone using the Dursleys, could intervene. He'd adopted Harry, in the Muggle way and the Wizarding as well-- although in the Wizarding way it had been a bit more like Harry adopting him, so he could become Lord Potter, an event he claimed to consider a foregone and very satisfactory conclusion as the Potters had been more family to him than his own flesh and blood, the Blacks. Harry himself had only a middling grasp on the intricacies of all that legal manoeuvring-- Draco had found it fascinating, and so had Neville, both of them far more schooled in Pureblood rigmorale than Harry was or could ever care to be, to the point where he had rather ignored their attempts to untangle it all for him, content merely with the result: he was cared for, he was safe from meddling well-meant or otherwise, and no-one could make him do anything he didn't want to. More or less.

'You'd have to ask Sirius about that,' Harry said at length, when it was clear Umbridge expected a reply.

'As it happens, I have.' She smiled again at his unwilling twitch; he didn't like that Sirius had ever given Umbridge the time of day, much less what Umbridge had managed to convince Sirius of. 'I do admire a man who takes his responsibilities so seriously-- pardon the pun. He cares a great deal for you, Harry, but you must know... well.'

'What,' Harry prompted her reluctantly.

'Why-- how overwhelmed he is, the dear man.' Umbridge pulled a long face in a show of sympathy. 'And who can blame him? To emerge from a decade in the darkest of prisons to find the world so very changed in his absence! Who could expect him to grasp the magnitude of a full ten years of history that passed him by? And to emerge, still a young man with wild oats to sew--' She ignored Harry scrunching up his nose in disgust and dismay at this. 'Instead to take on a fully grown boy who has such special needs as you, when he has no previous experience in caring for anyone--'

'He cared for Remus when he was sick, and I'm not so hard as all that,' Harry protested despite himself. He clamped down again as soon as it was out his mouth, but it was too late to catch back the slip.

'Yes, Remus Lupin,' Umbridge nodded. 'A tragic case indeed. Lord Potter's charity speaks well of him, so liberal in his causes. And yet mightn't one question the... wisdom... allowing a dangerous creature into his home? His home he now shares with a vulnerable child.'

'You're only trying to make him look bad!'

'Why on earth would I do so?' Umbridge sighed sadly. 'Have you noticed, Harry, that you often deny the truth? Perhaps even to yourself. Perhaps especially to yourself.' She paused for a long time, and Harry fought the silence with clenched fists and grinding jaws, unwilling to be the one who broke it. 'Did you know he has come to class inebriated?' she asked quietly. 'I've had more than one complaint of it.'

'Sirius... Sirius wouldn't do that.'

'You must admit it, Harry, in order to help him.'

'You don't  _want_ to help him, you don't  _want_ to help me, you only--'

'That's when he comes to class at all. He's missed more than once, claiming to be unwell. Oh, I do believe he was unwell, but not with a seasonal affliction.'

Percy had asked at breakfast if Sirius was feeling better yet. Harry hadn't thought anything of it then. His hesitation communicated loud and clear that Umbridge had won the point, however, and she nodded to herself.

'Of course he may yet turn himself a new leaf by winter holidays,' she said. 'I know you will have noticed sign-up sheets for those who will remain at the school for the break. I think you must have thought to yourself, at least, whether you ought to stay. What awaits you at home with Lord Black?'

'I want to spend Christmas with my family.'

'Which family? Your adopted grandfather is too ill to care for you, Lord Black may need more care than he can give.'

'Regulus--' He didn't have to finish that thought. He knew what she'd say about Regulus. 'We have a house elf,' he tried, last ditch effort.

Her look plainly pitied him. 'I am afraid I cannot in good conscience send you to such a "home",' she said. 'Mr Potter, for your safety, I feel compelled to bring your circumstances to the Headmaster's attention.'

'He won't take me away from Sirius.'

'Of course not,' Umbridge soothed him, smiling again. 'He has no authority with which to do so. But once he is alerted to a dangerous home situation, he must report it to the appropriate authority.'

Breathe. 'I'm not going back to my aunt and uncle. I'm not.'

'Oh, I hardly think that would do at all, not if what the  _Prophet_ has reported of them is true. Some other suitable arrangement would be made for you.'

'I can just stay at the school over break.'

Umbridge paused, thinking that over with a pink varnished nail tapping her chin. 'As a temporary solution, of course, and that may well be the wake-up Lord Potter needs. However... no, I'm afraid that doesn't answer for it, not at all. What if Lord Potter were to relapse into this misbehaviour in the spring? That would only delay dealing with this til the summer, and we'd be right back here, Harry.'

'Then what do you want?' Harry cried, and fought in vain to restrain himself. 'Professor,' he tried again, trying to master the rising heat in his head and the dread in his gut. 'How can I-- prove-- prove to you that Sirius is-- Sirius is--'

'I want your word,' Umbridge told him softly. 'Your sworn word you will tell me everything that might affect a decision to remove you from or keep you in his care.'

He didn't see a way out of it. He didn't know if it was true, that if she told Dumbledore these lies about Sirius that Dumbledore would have to tell the Ministry, but Harry knew well enough how it would work in the Muggle world. They'd take him away from Sirius until they'd had a full investigation, and that could be years. He wished desperately he could talk to Remus, who had always been swift to reassure him he'd find some way out of it-- but Remus wasn't there, that was the problem with everything.

Umbridge took his silence for assent. 'There now, I think we understand each other at last,' she said. She placed a sheet of parchment on the edge of her desk facing him, and selected a black-feathered quill from her cup. She offered it to him. 'Your sworn word, Mr Potter, and we'll have an agreement.'

He didn't see a way out of it. He couldn't think, couldn't think with her smiling at him like that. He took the quill in trembling fingers.

He heard the footsteps pounding up the stairs toward the office a moment before the door burst open. It was Sirius, sweating from running, his robe askew and his boots unlaced. 'Harry,' he growled, stomping into Umbridge's office and grabbing Harry by the shoulder. 'We're going.'

Harry didn't have to be told twice. He was shaking in sheer relief as he tossed the quill back to the desk, bending to grab his rucksack. Sirius barely gave him time to loop the strap over his head before he was yanked out the door, which slammed shut behind him.

Hermione was standing at the top of the stairs. She seized his hand the moment Harry was out, turning it this way and that. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find, so she grabbed for his left hand next. Bemused, Harry looked at Sirius, only to find his guardian was staring just as intently at Harry's hands. Hermione pushed up his sleeves, nearly to his elbows, and gave off a watery laugh.

'No marks,' she said. 'He's all right.'

'Marks? What do you mean?'

Abruptly Sirius squished him close in a tight hug. 'You terrify me sometimes,' he mumbled thickly into Harry's hair. 'Come on, let's get as far from here as we can.'

Harry was all for that, whatever else was going on. He willingly followed them out of the Charms classroom, Hermione clinging to his arm on one side and Sirius wrapping him close by the shoulders. 'Are you all right?' he asked them carefully, as they had to turn sideways to sidle through the classroom door as a group. 'Hermione, have you been crying?'

Hermione wiped quickly at her eyes. 'Oh,' she said, fumbling in her pockets, 'I had a tissue...'

'Here, love.' Sirius liberated a kerchief and handed it over. 'Been a day, hasn't it?'

'Are you all right?' Harry asked again, as Hermione dabbed her eyes. 'I'm really getting concerned.'

'Harry, did you sign anything?'

'No,' he said. 'She'd just brought out a paper, I didn't see what it said even.' That wasn't quite a lie. He hadn't read the parchment, but he knew pretty well what it would have done to Sirius.

'It's not the paper that's the problem, it's the quill,' Hermione explained, folding Sirius's kerchief awkwardly with one arm still woven with Harry's. 'It's a blood quill, Harry.'

'A what?'

'Blood quill,' Sirius said shortly, detouring for a moving stairwell and summoning it back with his wand. 'Which we are not going to talk about in the hallway. My office.'

So Harry found himself in yet another professor's office, stuffed into a wingback with Hermione crammed in beside him, still holding his hand. Sirius collapsed back into his chair behind the desk, taking a slug from the glass of brown liquid that had evidently been abandoned before he'd come streaking across the school to rescue Harry from Umbridge. He plucked at the collar of his shirt, wrenched out of his robe, and rubbed hard at both eyes. 'Merlin's tits,' he said feelingly.

'But what happened?' Harry demanded. 'I don't understand.'

'Oh, Harry.' Hermione squirmed about so she could face him, nearly putting them nose-to-nose in the chair. 'It's the most awful thing. I knew there was something wrong at lunch but--'

'Lunch yesterday?'

'Lunch today, you were--'

'We haven't had lunch today,' Harry began, before he realised what she meant. 'Oh.'

'I know about the time turner,' Sirius interrupted. 'All the teachers do.'

'Oh.' Harry looked back to Hermione, who was dabbing her eyes again. 'Something awful?'

'I knew there was something wrong, but you played it off and I was worried about the quiz in Divination--'

Sirius snorted and poured from a bottle of Ogden's into his glass. 'Here's a trick for you. Just predict someone's death. Guaranteed EE.'

Hermione spared him a cross glance before remembering it was a professor she was crossing at, and blushed. She sniffled and turned back to Harry again. 'You played it off so I didn't push you, and I'm so sorry. I should have. Then I saw you again in the Library and you had wrapped it in a rag but it was still bleeding. I nagged you til you showed me--'

'You don't nag,' Harry defended her.

'I know what you and Ron say behind my back,' Hermione brushed that aside. 'And you make me nag because you never do anything the easy way! Like today. When you finally showed me, it was horrible. She'd mangled your hand making you sign something in her office.'

'That parchment,' Harry guessed. He looked at Sirius. 'She was trying to get me to swear that I'd tell her things about you.'

'About on time,' Sirius said bitterly. 'If you can't join 'em, beat 'em. Fudge has been dangling bait all year trying to get me into his voting bloc. I suppose at some point he was always going to stop dangling and start-- something-ing. Sending his toad to do his dirty work. And fuck him, children are off limits! There's politics and there's rank corruption, and a blood quill walks right past corruption and into vicious and immoral criminality!'

'Here, here,' Hermione said stoutly.

'Sorry, I still don't know what a blood quill is.'

'It's a Dark magical object.' Hermione grabbed hold of Harry's hand again, shoulders heaving as she controlled her impulse toward tears. 'It writes with the blood of the person using it. Whatever that parchment was, you signed it in your own blood, Harry, and then you spent the rest of the day lying about it and pretending it was nothing which was  _stupid_ , by the way, and it binds whatever you've sworn to to your blood. You could  _die_ if you went against whatever oath you signed. And then Umbridge came to our table at the Library and told you to come with her, and I just knew something even worse was going to happen so I ran and got Sirius, I knew he would stop it and--' Her voice was stopped by a growing tremor. She sniffled again.

Harry hugged her. It wasn't easy, as he had to sort of sneak his arm into the small gap between chairback and girl and he didn't really have room for his elbow, but he managed it. 'And you came back with the time turner,' he finished for her.

'It was almost too long,' Hermione whispered. Her slight shoulders quivered in his hold. 'It had nearly been five hours and the hour limiting charm--'

'I know. But you were in time.' One of her quivers passed to him, and he shivered as gooseflesh broke out on his arms. 'Umbridge can't really want me to die?'

'She probably didn't think that through.' Sirius emptied his glass and slammed it down. 'This isn't aimed at you, not really. It's the idea of you. They want to control you, and what you say, and what you mean. They've been doing it for decades. Centuries. Sometimes they win and sometimes they don't, but it never occurs to them not to try.'

A knock at the door had them all jumping. For the second time that day, someone came bursting through a professor's door, but this time it was only Tonks, possibly tripping on her way in, but only because she was in a rush, eyes wide and wand in hand. 'Harry!' she hollered, as Harry poked his head above the chair to answer her. Tonks slumped against the door for a breather, before turning a hot glare on Sirius.

'I heard you were on a stampede across the entire bloody school,' she accused him. 'I thought something had happened to Harry! He was meant to be in Remedial Studies for another hour!'

'And you were meant to be watching him,' Sirius returned nastily. 'What use are you if you're not there?'

Tonks looked affronted at this, and not a little uncertain suddenly. 'You're all right, Harry? I know Umbridge isn't pleasant to you but her office is warded and the floo's the only way in or out--'

'She tried to use a blood quill,' Sirius said shortly. He reached for the bottle, spinning the cap off into the corner and splashing more whiskey into his glass. 'And good you're finally here, anyway, I want to file an official complaint.'

'A blood quill?' Tonks repeated, aghast. She came around the chair to seize Harry's hands, checking them for herself. 'You didn't sign anything?'

'We've already been through that bit,' Harry said, giving Tonks a reassuring squeeze. 'I didn't.'

'If Umbridge has a blood quill at Hogwarts there's no telling what else she's got stashed away,' Sirius raged on. 'Or who else she's used it on.'

'But she hasn't,' Harry said. 'Used it on me.'

'Harry, didn't you hear what I told you?' Hermione demanded.

'I did,' Harry nodded. 'But now it hasn't happened, because you stopped it.'

'Wait, what?' Tonks said.

Sirius leant his head back, eyes dipping wearily closed. 'You're right. Shit.'

'Oh, but--' Hermione bit her lip. 'She'll get away with it? But it did happen the once, can't we tell them that?'

'If she's got two brains to rub together she'll have hidden it by now,' Harry said. 'After the way you two busted in. I'm not complaining,' he added, mustering a smile, and receiving a watery one in return from his friend. 'Thanks,' he said. 'For rescuing me.'

'Oh, I did a bit, didn't I?'

Even Sirius found a grin for that. 'You did, love, and well done.' He toasted her with his glass.

'Someone explain now,' Tonks interrupted loudly, yanking Sirius's bottle away. He glared til she swigged from it herself, dropping into the remaining chair and sitting forward on her elbows to look at all of them. 'From the beginning and do it in order, please, or I'll go mad.'

So Hermione and Sirius told their half of it again, and Harry affirmed his part, though he attempted to skate lightly over details he thought might only get Sirius riled up again, conscious of the presence of that bottle of whiskey sitting so openly on the desk. Tonks gave him a canny look that said she'd guessed, anyway, and Sirius's mouth was pressed into a thin white line, and he didn't finish his glass this time, but stared into the remaining sip with something bitter and dark twisting in his eyes. There was a long silence after Harry trailed off his final word, and Hermione sniffled again, but quietened herself quickly. Harry gave her stockinged knee a press, and she flashed him a quick grateful smile, but didn't dare speak.

'I'd need the Headmaster's permission to search her office,' Tonks said finally. 'I can do it without that, but I'd need approval from Scrimgeour to act on a complaint of criminal possession of dark magic. Harry didn't actually recognise the quill, and Hermione didn't see it for herself either, just the effect, and Umbridge will argue Harry did it to himself.'

Umbridge would like nothing better, Harry thought. Crazy Harry Potter mutilating himself would fit neatly into her allegations to the  _Prophet_.

'I hate her,' Hermione burst out. 'She's evil.'

'She's clever,' Sirius muttered, and did drink the rest of his whiskey, then, but he dropped the glass into the rubbish bin and stood to stand at the window, one arm braced on the wall, forehead resting on his wrist as he glared at the mountains in the distance. 'All of this, it's damn well done. If I file a complaint, it'll fail; if I don't, it's just more evidence I'm an unfit guardian.'

'It won't come to that,' Tonks soothed him. 'You've got resources. Allies. And family, come to that. I think you should make it known you've got support from--'

'Who? Reg? If it came to a child welfare hearing they'd never leave Harry with him.'

'You know my mum would--'

'Andromeda's been out of Wizarding society for decades, and anyway half the Wizengamot will be secretly thinking she's a race traitor for marrying a Muggle. And I'm not touching the rest of the Blacks, it's out of the question.'

Tonks bit back whatever her first reply might have been, and finished carefully. 'At least you've probably given the bitch a good scare. She'll wonder if we know, and she won't try anything else til she's sure she can get away with it. That gives you time to shore up your side. I'll ask around, quietly; maybe I can figure out where that blood quill came from, she can't have come by it legally. And I'm taking this to Scrimgeour. We may not be able to act now, but he needs to know the Minister's got people playing very dirty on his behalf. We can start building up files, be ready to act when one of them slips up.'

'Fudge'll only disavow knowledge,' Sirius protested. 'He'll say he had no idea what they were up to and he'll get off scot free--'

'Then we'll have to prove otherwise, won't we?'

'Fudge will say it's politics as usual, Scrimgeour's only trying to tarnish his reputation in the press.'

'Then what do you want me to do, Sirius!'

'I don't know!' Sirius retorted. 'Fuck! I don't know.'

The bell rang, signalling the end of morning classes and calling for the noon meal. Harry coughed to clear his throat. 'Hermione, do you remember where your bag and books are?' he asked her. 'I'll walk you to go get them.'

'I left them in the Library this evening,' she tried to recall, brow creasing, counting on her fingers. 'I had a double this morning but I went to lunch the second time from Arithmancy--'

'About the time turner.' Sirius turned reluctantly from the window, arms folding over his chest. 'The two of you need to be more careful.'

Harry twitched. 'Er, two of whom?'

'I know I can't stop you doing,' Sirius said. 'I know you're not the frivolous sort and you're not doing it for fun and pranks, more's the misfortune. And I know if I try to stop you, you'll only learn to be cleverer hiding it; it's what I would've done. But listen to what I'm saying, all right? You do need to be cleverer about it. Save it for when you really need it.'

Tonks snapped a glare at Harry. 'You're using the time turner?' she accused.

'I--' Harry floundered, caught between lying outright and knowing it was useless. 'I have,' he said finally. 'I'll be cleverer.'

'I didn't hear that,' Tonks groaned. 'Get out, before you say something I do have to do something about.'

'Right,' Harry agreed hastily, and pulled Hermione with him at a skip for the door.

 

 

**

 

 

Harry didn't have the time to contemplate his near-escape til his head hit his pillow that night at lights out. Then, despite his attempts to turn his mind to pleasanter things, he couldn't stop reviewing it over and over in his mind. Umbridge putting that parchment on the desk, selecting the black-feathered quill for him. Had she been grinning evilly? Eyes alight as she instructed him to maul his own flesh with a dark object? Harry had had his share of bad teachers at Crowhill, and he thought back to Mr Thompkins, who had once beat Harry's hands so severely that Remus had gone off in a fury to-- well, Harry still didn't know entirely what Remus had done, but he'd said Mr Thompkins would never thrash any boy again, and so far as Harry knew that had been true. Til Mr Thompkins had been killed by Tom Riddle.

And that was who Umbridge really reminded him of, he thought. Tom, who had smirked from the moment he'd tumbled out of a cauldron with a body again, smug in his own superiority and talking in that silly mannered way, every word crafted to remind everyone how much better he was than everyone else. Umbridge always did her level best to make Harry feel stupid, talking down to him as if he were dull as a rock and only needed her instruction to rectify his idiocy. But comparing her to Tom only made him think, too, that even Voldemort was not invulnerable. Harry had faced Voldemort twice now, once possessing Quirrell and once in his own re-made sixteen year old form, and both times Voldemort had failed to do what he wanted to do. Umbridge had far more power than Harry wished her to have, but she was constrained by something Voldemort wasn't. Rules. Rules and politics and the  _Prophet_ and she was only a teacher, not a Dark Lord who would stop at nothing. If Harry could stop Voldemort, he could stop Umbridge. He just had to be cleverer.

With that thought, he was finally able to sleep. And it was an untroubled sleep, for the first time in a while. He didn't know how, just yet, but he would stop Umbridge and keep his family, and everything outside of that was trivial.

 

 

**

 

 

'I'm not sure I see the point of a safety belt on a broom,' Harry said dubiously.

'As someone who's fallen off his broom more than once, I should think you would do,' Luna countered, unphased by his lack of enthusiasm for her proposal.

'Well, true, I guess.' Harry came to a halt at the top of the hill; Luna would follow the stone steps down to her Care of Magical Creatures class, and Harry would head the long way round the castle to the greenhouses. 'Are you doing all right?' he asked her seriously. 'Tell me, if you're not, won't you?'

Luna gave him a brilliant smile. 'I'm all right, Harry.'

'No-one's practising severing charms near your head anymore?'

'Not as of late.' Her smile faded a bit, and she inhaled and held it, a little, as Harry looked on with concern. 'Are you going to stop being my friend, then?' she asked. 'Since you've solved it.'

'Stop? No, Luna,' he told her forcefully. 'We're friends no matter what. I'm just glad it also helped things for you.'

'Oh, good.' Her confidence restored, she relaxed. 'In that case, do you mind maybe not walking me to class anymore?'

'Oh. Er, no, not if you don't want me to.'

'I do enjoy our walks,' she assured him, 'only I think I might like to ask Michael to walk me.'

'Michael?'

'Michael Corner. He's rather taller than you, so I think he'll probably walk faster. Longer legs.'

'Oi,' Harry said, playing offended, but he cocked his head at Luna. 'It wouldn't have anything to do with him being handsomer than me too?'

A faint blush stained her cheeks pink. 'I hadn't noticed,' she said levelly.

Harry laughed. 'Well, I'm always available as a back-up, if you need. Good luck with Corner.'

'Thank you,' Luna replied with dignity. 'Good luck with Bones.'

'What?'

'Hi, Harry,' said a girl approaching them on the steps.

'Bye, Harry,' Luna said, and set off hopping down the steps.

'Er, hi,' Harry answered the girl who had stopped directly in his way. 'It's, uh, it's Bones, isn't it?'

'You can call me Susan,' the girl said, twisting a lock of hair about a finger and giving him a strange sideways look through her eyelashes.

'Oh. Uh, you can call me Harry. I mean, you did call me Harry already. Uh.' He presented his hand. 'You're Hufflepuff too?' he guessed lamely, nodding to the yellow lining of her robe. 'My-- Remus-- my, er, I have a lot of Hufflepuff friends.'

Her hand was soft in his, her cheeks hot as she giggled a bit, as if he'd said something hilarious instead of something stuttery and pointless. 'You're headed to Herbology?'

'Yeah. You too? Oh-- we'll be late if we don't hurry.' Harry checked his watch quickly; only two minutes to the bell. He shuffled, but he couldn't get past her if she didn't move. 'Um... shall we?'

'Oh, thank you,' she agreed, about-facing and waiting for him to pace beside her. She wasn't walking all that quickly despite the time crunch, and Harry tried not to look impatient. She didn't say anything else, either, apparently pre-occupied with nibbling the lock of hair she was still twining and smiling at him whenever he stole a glance her way.

'Er, are you looking forward to the lesson?' he asked haltingly. 'I heard we get to do mandrakes next.'

'Yes,' Susan said, giggling again, though he wasn't sure what he'd said this time that could be taken as humour.

'Neville, my dorm mate, he says mandrakes are dangerous. But if you're careful and care after them, they're really useful in a tonne of potions, lots of restoratives mainly.'

'You're so clever, Harry.'

That had been Neville being clever, not Harry, who hadn't even managed to adequately summarise the forty minutes Neville had spent waxing enthusiastic about mandrakes before Seamus had told him to shut it already, listening to someone drone on about Herbology was practically working, and Seamus refused to work after dinner. 'Er,' said Harry. 'Uh, we should hurry. We'll miss the bell.'

Susan did not hurry. She slowed down, actually, nearly coming to a halt, and Harry swayed in place, not sure if he ought to abandon her and run for it or try to hustle her along politely.

'I was wondering if--'

'We should really-- what?'

'I was going to ask--'

'It's just the greenhouses are right there--'

'DO YOU HAVE A DATE TO THE BALL,' Susan asked, talking over him at volume.

'What? What ball?'

'Only I heard there's going to be a--'

'Bell,' Harry said, breaking into a run. 'Come on!'

He clambered onto his bench breathing hard just as the last chime faded. Sprout gave him an eyebrow, but let him get away with it. Susan was not so lucky, being slower than Harry and not making it to her table before Sprout could scold her and take a point for tardiness. Susan sat scowling, arms crossed sulkily over her chest.

'What's all that about?' Ron wondered.

'Haven't the foggiest,' Harry whispered back, flipping through his textbook to find the page Hermione was subtly showing him, and doing his best to look like he was deeply interested in learning all about mandrakes when Sprout swung about to pass an appraising eye over her students.

'Now that we're all present and at attention,' Sprout said pointedly, 'let's dig in. Each of you, come get a pair of earmuffs, smocks, and gloves. Dirty work ahead of us today!'

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff obediently queued for access to the bins lining the back wall. Those who wanted matched sizes fought their way to the front, but Harry lingered at the back, giving Hermione's sleeve a tug to pull her back with him. 'I need the time turner before dinner,' he breathed into her ear.

'Harry!' Hermione glanced about to be sure they weren't at risk of being overheard, lowering her voice cautiously. 'You heard what Sirius said.'

'I heard. He said save it for when I need it. I need it.'

'For what?' She glared at him when he only shrugged her off, unwilling to answer. 'Tonks will be watching you like a hawk, you know.'

'Don't I know it.' He'd got better at ignoring her loitering behind him all the time, as she did make an effort to stay far enough back for him to converse freely with his friends, but he'd been aware of her outside just now, and she had taken an unobtrusive seat in the back of class, now, sipping a cup of Sprout's herbal tea and reading a newspaper. 'I'll tell her I'm going to the loo and do it from there.'

'If she figures it out, you know you'll never be allowed to wee alone again.'

That was later's problem. 'So can I have it?'

'Oh, fine.'

'Thanks.'

'Why is Susan Bones glaring at you?'

'Something about a ball.'

Hermione looked at him blankly as they shuffled forward in queue. 'Like a Quidditch ball?'

'I wish,' he said morosely. 'Quidditch I understand. Something about did I have a date for a ball.'

'The Yule Ball?'

Harry snapped his fingers. 'That's right, that's part of the Tournament, isn't it? I'd clean forgot it with everything else going on.'

Hermione sent a little scowl of her own in Susan's direction. 'Awfully early, isn't she? It's not even been announced yet. What did you tell her?'

'Nothing, the bell rang.' Hermione turned an impatient look on Harry, next, and Harry blinked at her. Then he groaned. 'Oh no, she was asking me to go with her, wasn't she?'

'Yes,' Hermione affirmed, giving him a swat. 'And you won't be saved by the bell next time.'

'I don't have to say yes, do I?'

'If you don't want to go with her, don't. But don't be rude about it.'

'I couldn't care less about a ball,' Harry muttered moodily. 'Think I can get out of it entirely?'

'Maybe, but probably not. You are a TWAT, after all, I'd imagine they'll want you there to chaperon or something.'

Harry brightened at this. 'If I have to chaperon, there's no point in having a date, at least. I'll tell her that.'

'If it turns out not to be true, she'll just think you lied to put her off.'

Harry heaved a sigh. 'Everything is hard,' he muttered. The students in front of them moved off with an armful of equipment, and Harry looked into the bins. The only earmuffs and gloves left were pink, and too small. He rolled his eyes and took them, sharing them with Hermione, and trudged back to his desk determined to have himself a mood.

Later that evening, Hermione arrived at dinner with a stack of books she wanted them to revise for Latin, one of which was an actual book on Latin, to Ron's dismay. Harry was even more dismayed to be peremptorily assigned that book to read and outline for the group, but Hermione kept giving him confusing looks, clearly hinting at something he didn't grasp. With a huff, Hermione sat across from Harry and opened her own book, saying in an odd stilted voice, 'Harry, why don't you  _open your book too_ and we can get a head-start for later.'

'I want to eat first,' Harry protested.

' _Open your book, Harry Potter._ '

'Fine.' Cowed, he obeyed, flipping back the cover and ducking his head to avoid her glare. 'Oh.' Something was sandwiched between the pages. Harry quickly palmed the time turner concealed in the book, and pretended to be absorbed by the fascinating history of Latin tenses. 'Thanks,' he told Hermione.

'You're welcome,' she replied, mollified, and served herself from the platter of parsnips and carrots. Ron had her share of the pork pie.

Harry followed his friends back to their dorm after dinner, and joined them in the common room to work on their Transfiguration essay and the Potions reading. He kept what he hoped was a casual eye on the clock, and an even more casual eye on Tonks, who had found a corner to sit in where she could observe him in return but not bother him, filing her long nails and looking rather bored. At half past eight, Harry set down his pen and rose. 'Need the loo,' he said, receiving very little acknowledgment from people who had no reason to care where he went and what he did there, but Tonks stood as well and followed him up the stairs and all the way to the door of the boys' room. 'Er, I'm fine from here,' Harry said, and Tonks chuckled and let him be, heading back down to the common room. Harry slipped inside, choosing the stall farthest from the door, and locked himself in. He strung the time turner about his neck, and took careful hold of the small knob on the side. 'One turn should do it,' he told himself, and set to.

The shuffle of feet reversing in and out of the loo outside his stall sped quickly past. He hadn't thought about the fact that stalls might be used as students rushed in before dinner to wash or change, and he had a brief scare when someone rattled the door beside his, but he was lucky and no-one tried to come into the last cubicle. When time stopping moving backward, Harry checked thoroughly through the crack of the door and determined he'd arrived when he meant to: in the quiet of mid-dinner hour, when everyone was in at their meal.

Including Dolores Umbridge.

Just to be safe, Harry fetched his invisibility cloak, wrapped himself in its velvet confines, and crept out the Gryffindor dorms on tiptoe. After that, though, he made his way across the castle at a run, knowing the only man he was likely to meet on his way was the groundskeeper Ravensworth, so as long as he kept an eye over his shoulder he should be all right. If he ever did grow any taller, the cloak might not cover all of him, but that was later's problem too.

He'd expected Umbridge to lock her office, and wasn't disappointed, but fortune had granted him something better than an Alohomora. He touched the hilt of his sword where it rode his shoulder, and said, 'Do you mind?' Happily, the sword did not mind at all, and the door popped open immediately. Harry let himself in, shutting it silently behind him, and pushed back the hood of the cloak.

He was truly beginning to loathe pink, he decided. Umbridge had slathered it on thick, even painting the stone walls and layering rose-coloured rugs on the floor. A single lamp with a pink glass shade glowed on the desk, but all else was silent. The kittens in the plates hung on the wall were all absorbed in grooming or napping, and the few that noticed Harry's arrival mewed a few times and went back to washing themselves.

'If I were a quill,' Harry asked himself, 'where would I hide?'

The desk was out, obviously. Umbridge would hardly leave the quill sitting out for all to see. He tested each of the drawers in the desk and found them locked, but that was no more difficulty than the door had been. He refiled through files, not at all surprised to see one with his name on it and another with Sirius's, but he couldn't take them without alerting her, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. But there was nothing stopping him from writing down the names of everyone she had a file on, he reasoned, so he nabbed a sheet of pink parchment from the stationery box-- ugh, rose-scented-- and what he hoped was a normal quill, and wrote down the labels of every file in the drawer. She had notes on Dumbledore, all of the professors, and several other students. There were a few that were place names, or events-- one on the Chamber of Secrets, he was sorely tempted by that one, and one titled Godric's Hollow-- that one made his heart seize tight for an entirely different reason. With an effort, Harry turned himself away from her files and inspected the rest of her drawers. The biggest one on the bottom held only a spare set of kitten heels-- pink-- and a handbag-- pink-- which Harry rifled quickly, finding little other than compacts of cover up and tubes of lipstick, a Ministry identification badge, and a tin of breath mints. So. Not the desk, then.

Harry had been around magic long enough to know not to touch things on her shelf, even the books. He noted down the names of all her books, but didn't open them, though he thought of how Hermione had hidden the time turner in a book and wondered if there might be room for a quill between those pages up there. He did risk touching her tea things, lifting the lid of the sugar pot and sniffing the pink crystals, but he'd seen her use that and figured she wouldn't dose herself with anything. He nearly bypassed the perfume bottle on the tea tray, not wanting to smell like Umbridge, but a second thought struck him. There was no reason to keep perfume on a tea tray, not when you had a handbag with all the other personal items. Harry pulled loose the stopper carefully, giving the bottle a cautious sniff. Granted Harry didn't have all that much experience with women's scents, but he didn't reckon even a woman like Umbridge would want to smell like this stuff, chemically and vaguely sulphiric. If it wasn't perfume, then what was it? Harry didn't know, but he had a notion who'd be able to tell him.

He gave the rest of the office a thorough going-over, even checking the cabinets for false bottoms like Remus had used last year to hide the black book, but if the blood quill was still here, it was beyond Harry's ability to find it. And beyond the amount of time he had left to him. Dinner would be ending soon, and Tonks would be following before-Harry back to the common room, and Umbridge might return to her office, which meant Harry had to be gone before then. So he cleaned up behind himself, making sure everything was as it ought to be, and asked the sword to lock up behind him. He cloaked himself carefully, and left the Charms classroom behind.

Snape arrived back at his office a prompt ten minutes after dinner ended, exactly the amount of time it took to walk at a brisk pace from the Great Hall to the dungeons, assuming all the staircases cooperated. Snape came in already unbuttoning his outer robe, and shed it to the rack beside the door before retreating to his desk to seat himself. A tap of his wand set the kettle to steaming, and he summoned a cup and saucer from the hutch. As his tea steeped, Snape turned his attention to a pile of essays, setting to marking with an attentive frown.

'I know you're there,' he said then.

Harry slipped back the hood of his cloak. 'How'd you know?'

'You still breathe, Mr Potter, however invisibly.'

'I'll have to work on that.' Harry approached the desk, and set Umbridge's perfume bottle on it. 'I think it's a potion. Maybe you'll know which one.'

'Dare I ask the provenance of this particular sample?'

Harry picked at his thumbnail. 'It might be best not to.'

Snape gave Harry a long look, but that didn't stop him reaching for the bottle, setting the stopper aside, and waving it under his long nose. 'As it happens, I can identify it,' he said. 'Veritaserum.'

Harry blinked at this news. 'Truth potion?'

'An inadequate label for a complex potion, but essentially accurate.' Snape toyed with the bottle. 'This is about three ounces, I would say, and the bottle is not full, meaning whoever you stole this from is liable for about five years in Azkaban for illegal possession of a controlled substance.'

Harry pinched at his cuticles, ripping the skin slowly. A tiny spot of blood appeared. 'The kind of person who keeps a lot of Veritaserum in their office, and also things like blood quills... you'd have to be really careful how you go after that kind of person, wouldn't you.'

'Yes,' Snape said. 'One would. One would also hope that a thirteen year old boy was not contemplating such an adventure.'

'Hope's a dangerous thing. I feel like someone said that to me once.' Harry pulled a chair to the desk, sitting close enough to lay his elbows on the wood and cushion his chin on his arms. 'I left myself a little time to put it back before she knows it's gone. There's not any point keeping it, is there? There's no tests or anything you can do to figure out who brewed it or anything like that?'

Snape shrugged. 'Every brewer has a personal signature, whether it's incompetence or the use of particular herbs and techniques. But I don't know every brewer in the United Kingdom, much less beyond our shores.'

'It's not like how Aurors can test wands to see the last spell cast with it?'

'If we had a human or animal subject, I might be able to tell you what potions it ingested or touched, but I can't learn anything from the bottle.' Snape reached out to pluck the stopper from Harry's hand, replacing it and setting the bottle on the desk between them. 'What would you expect to learn from that, if it was possible?'

Harry didn't debate not telling Snape. He needed to tell someone, he'd figured that out when his steps had turned him not toward his dorm, but to a sympathetic ear. He thought a sympathetic ear, anyway. 'You won't turn me in? To Dumbledore or to the Aurors?'

'You have to know that a sentence like that conjures the worst possibilities,' Snape reproached him, but he was already giving in, and Harry saw it. When he smiled, Snape didn't quite smile back, but Harry understood.

'She had files,' he said then, taking his list from his pocket and showing Snape. 'All these long files on everyone, filled with notes, and she said something the other day about Sirius said something to her, only it wasn't something I thought Sirius would say, but he would say it if she was secretly dosing him with truth serum, wouldn't he? In his tea?'

'All possible, but what makes you suspect the tea?'

'Fawkes wouldn't let me drink it. I just thought he was misbehaving then, but she stopped trying to serve me tea after he wrecked it a few times.' Harry tapped the desk, thinking it through. 'I bet that's why she brought out the blood quill,' he realised. 'She couldn't get me to drink the Veritaserum so she needed another way to get me to tell her secrets.'

'Blood quill?' Snape repeated keenly.

'What can you tell me about blood quills? Other than that they're illegal and they make you keep whatever oath you sign with them.'

'Those are the highlights.'

'If they're illegal, how did she get one?'

'If the "she" to whom we are obliquely referring is who I believe, then I would imagine she helped herself to the cache of confiscated materials held by the Aurors.'

Harry frowned at this. 'You mean they keep all the dark things they seize from people's houses?'

'What else would they do?'

'Destroy them,' Harry said, assuming it was obvious.

'How?' Snape asked in exactly the same tone. 'Dark objects don't tend to destroy that easily. Some leave a residue, a kind of... stain, I suppose you could say. It is far safer to lock them away. And, of course-- waste not, want not.'

Harry grimaced at this. He slumped back in his chair. 'So I don't know anything I didn't already know.'

Snape pursed his lips, then stood. He crossed his office to a shelf of books. They weren't anything at all like Umbridge's books, which had been bound by pink-tinted leather and seemed to be largely Ministry manuals. Harry had noticed these books before, and he didn't like them-- it was almost as if the books were deliberately repulsive, doing their bookish best to make him not like them. They made his stomach feel iffy and his head ache. Snape chose one from the middle of the stack, and brought it back to the desk. 'Don't touch,' he warned Harry, entirely unnecessarily, for Harry wanted nothing to do with them. The black binding was thin and oddly stretched, almost more like parchment than leather, like-- skin, maybe. Harry shuddered and inched his chair back as Snape quickly perused the pages, searching for something.

'Blood quills,' he said then. 'Outlawed during the war, another case of too little too late. Favoured by Purebloods, who no doubt managed to secure a few from Auror raids. The goblin tribal conglomerate that runs Gringotts also used them in the past, particularly for contracts with Pureblood account holders. They voluntarily gave up their stash when the law changed, if you believe that, which I for one do not. At the least this suggests that while the quill itself is a dark object, it was not always used for explicitly dark purposes. Your own father, for instance, would have used one when he took up the Potter lordship, and again when he named you his heir.' Snape closed the book. 'What would you have done with more knowledge about the quills?'

'I don't know,' Harry answered truthfully. 'I just think... I just think something ought to be done.'

'And you're the one to do it?'

'Dunno,' he said, dropping his chin to his arms again. 'Maybe. Aren't I always?'

'It may surprise you to learn there was plenty of wrong in the world before you were born, and there will be plenty after you are gone. That is neither your fault nor your responsibility.'

'Is there anything in that book about prophecy?' Harry asked suddenly.

Snape went white as a sheet. Concerned, Harry sat upright, and reached out to cover Snape's hand with his. Snape stared at their fingers as if Harry had stabbed him with a knife instead, and his hand was trembling.

'Tea,' Harry said, rising to fetch the pot and pouring sloppily into Snape's cup. 'Here, sir. Drink some of that down.'

'I don't need a nursemaid,' Snape said crankily, but his voice was oddly airless. He drank, enough to recover his colour, and placed the cup carefully back into its saucer. 'The milk has gone off.'

'I can get another bottle--'

'You should be getting back to Umbridge's office to return that bottle. Do you need cover to return to your dorm after?'

'I've got the cloak,' Harry said. He hesitated. 'Are you sure you're well, sir? I could stop by the infirmary and get Miss Applebaum.'

'No need. Merely a moment's... a moment's faintness. I shall go directly to bed.' Snape rose carefully, balancing himself with his good arm. 'As will you. On your word.'

'Yes, sir.' Harry wet his lips, but Snape turned a glare with its usual amount of foreboding on him, so Harry cloaked himself and turned for the door. He went back for the bottle, sheepishly sticking it into a pocket. 'Um, good night.'

Snape swallowed audibly. 'Good night,' he repeated. 'Harry.'

'Good night, sir.' Harry cast a last lingering look as he left. Whatever Snape was thinking, it didn't look like happy thoughts. 'Sleep well,' he said softly, and showed himself out. In the dim of the corridor, he pulled up his hood, and raised the time turner. Just enough to return the bottle to Umbridge's office, and then he'd--

Then, he didn't know. Then, whatever came next, he supposed.

'Bed,' he muttered, and turned back time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saint Mungo is a real(ish) person who was known in Wales and Scotland as Cyndeyrn or Kentigern, living in the late sixth century and founding a couple of cathedrals and performing four miracles. He did indeed die in the bath in old age. He was probably a Muggle. _The Life of Saint Mungo_ was written by the monk Jocelyn of Furness in about 1185, who translated or adapted several hagiographies of Celtic saints for Anglo-Norman readership. I do not know what his motivation for doing so was, but I placed him in context of several writers of that period who drew on native oral tradition or existing writings and made their name as scholars providing a service to the new ruling class who needed to know what nationalistic rumblings to suppress and what local superstitions to transform to their own ends.
> 
> King James considered himself a religious scholar and published several works, including one on magic and how it might be rooted out and justly dealt with. He personally presided over at least one hundred witch trials, and seems overall to have been a pretty paranoid dude. There is no known connection, however, between the assassination attempt by Guy Fawkes and any wizards who happened to be in the vicinity.
> 
> Rowling has not explicitly ascribed the International Statute of Secrecy to any one event, but there was a definite tide of anti-magic sentiment sweeping Europe and the Holy Roman Empire that came to be based in pseudo-science and civic law as well as religious strife. The Wizards' Council was replaced by the Ministry of Magic in the early 1700s, suggesting to me that the separation of Muggles and Wizards led to a vacuum of governing bureaucracy, even if wizards still seem to nominally acknowledge the monarchy as well as an international authority. Rowling filled in a great deal of the infrastructure of wizarding government (although she left out some interesting stuff like how the new Minister for Magic is appointed, elected, or otherwise chosen to assume power), but there is plenty of room left to imagine for ourselves...


	15. The Third Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Which The Trap Is Tripped._

'Are you all right?' Harry asked, concerned. 'You look awfully glum.'

'Cho and I broke up,' Cedric confided, glumly indeed. 'Last night. She said she didn't want me to be distracted during the Task today but she didn't want to lead me on, either.'

Harry pulled a face at this. 'Sorry, mate, that's awful.'

'Everything's just been so busy this year. We didn't have much time for each other, even before the Tournament.' Cedric scraped a hand through hair that seemed flopsier than normal, as dejected as the handsome face beneath it. 'Her parents expect her to keep her marks up and with everything going on... well, you know.'

Harry shuffled on guilty feet. He did know. The Knights and the Light Guard took up a certain amount of their limited spare time, and none of that would happen if it weren't for Harry. 'You could, you know, take a break, maybe,' he suggested carefully.

'I'm not asking for a break,' Cedric said, bristling at this. 'Nor is Cho. Just... you know...'

'I'm sorry,' Harry said again, the only patch he could put on it. 'Sorry for both of you. I wish... you know.'

'Yeah.' Cedric sighed. 'Yeah.'

Behind them at his podium, Dumbledore clapped his hands for attention, and the chatter of the large crowd spread across the stands of the Quidditch Pitch dimmed slowly. 'Good morning, dear children, honoured guests,' Dumbledore greeted them all, voice projected through the whole Pitch by his wand held to his throat. 'We gather today for a most momentous occasion: today is the day of the Third Task.'

A raucous cheer arose from the gathered students of three schools. Durmstrang added a thunderous tattoo of their stomping feet rattling the boards of the stands, nearly drowning out the chant from Beauxbatons as they unfurled a wave of banners in Beauxbatons blue. On the sands, Rolvsson preened in his leviathan cape, grinning winningly for the cameras that flashed all about them. He had emerged as a press favourite after the last Task, subject of a very flattering biographical article in the Friday edition of  _The Prophet_. Fleur Delacour was also posing, a modestly down-turned head of shining golden hair as she lovingly stroked the jewelled necklace that had been her prize from their night in the Forest. A young man in the crowd broke through the gate to streak onto the sands, and threw himself at Fleur's feet, begging her to accept a rose and in return grant him a kiss. The press ate it up as Fleur did indeed accept the flower, though Madame Maxime's looming glower over Fleur's shoulder put a stop to the kiss. An Auror dragged the man away as he shouted 'Fleur! I love you! I love you, Fleur! Fleur, my flower, I love-- oof-- ow, you berk--'

'Passions are running high,' Dumbledore observed mildly, and the crowd laughed. 'After today, our doughty Champions must pit themselves against a great hazard, pitting their mind and might against the most devious devices of several experts who, between them, have constructed the course you see before you now-- or shall, when we lift the disillusionment spell. Mr Crouch, if you will?'

Barty Crouch took Dumbledore's place at the podium. 'The obstacle course was designed with input from each school's headmaster and headmistress,' he explained to the crowd, nodding deferentially to Dumbledore, 'to incorporate the specialty of each school's magical curriculum. It also incorporates several elements of the tests given to Aurors as part of the entrance examination for the Auror Corps. Lastly, the Gaming Committee of the International Confederation of Wizards inspected the site and ensured the course was suitable to the environs. Rigourous testing over several months confirmed that each student competing today has every chance to succeed-- if, that is, they have the mettle. In addition to our judges, we have Aurors on hand to ensure the safety of our Champions.'

'Vote of confidence, that,' Angelina muttered. Harry nodded vehemently.

'Each Champion bears a talisman won during the last Task,' Dumbledore resumed speaking. 'Within the course lies an opportunity for each to put their talisman to use today. If each Champion has put in the time and effort to learn how best to use their talisman, they will succeed. If not, they shall fail. Champions: do your best!'

'Gather round, ladies and gentlemen,' Crouch beckoned them. 'Drawing lots for who's in first. Each school has more than one competitor, so each of you will be competing against your fellows as well as the other schools. If more than one of you from each school makes it to the next round, we'll have a "sudden death" final obstacle to determine which of you moves forward.'

'I hate this part,' Harry sighed, and trudged after the rest of the Champions who hurried to surround Crouch and his upturned hat. He watched the faces of the other students as they drew one after the other. He knew Rolvsson had first by the way his face lit up fiercely, proudly. He saw the others counting backward from the total number of their company to the number they held, and smiling or sighing accordingly. Harry didn't know if he hoped for a smaller number or a larger one-- there was appeal in just getting it over with, but on the other hand he had absolutely no desire to do this. When his turn came to reach into Crouch's hat, he held his breath.

'May I?' Crouch asked, indicating Harry's slip of parchment. Harry offered it. 'Number three,' Crouch read. 'A good number. Propitious.'

'Pro-what? Sir.'

'Lucky,' Crouch told him gravely. 'Buck up, young man. Just do your best.'

Harry wet his lips. 'Yes, sir. I will.'

'Good lad.' Crouch stepped back, nodding to Dumbledore. 'All done, Albus.'

'Tremendous.' Dumbledore smiled at all of them, the bright morning sun glinting off his spectacles. 'We have prepared a tent for you outside the Pitch,' he informed them. 'Rest, conserve your strength, and await your turns, Champions.'

Right. Harry attempted to get some air into his lungs. Right.

'We begin!' Dumbledore called to the crowd, and everyone packed into the stands roared with approval.

Harry was not particularly good at waiting. He never had been, really; he preferred to be doing, if only to give himself the illusion of progress. There was a good spread of tea and and healthy snacks, but though he'd been too much on his nerves for breakfast he was no better now, and chewed his fingernails rather than any of the food on the buffet. There was, however, a mascot awaiting them: Fawkes was perched on one of the tent's crosspoles, and unleashed a lovely operetta of song for the astonished Champions. Then he flew down from the pole to alight on Harry's shoulder, plucked Harry's glasses clear off his face with a snap of his beak, and immediately dropped them to the carpeted floor.

'Fawkes,' Harry sighed, and crouched to retrieve them.

'This is your familiar?' Fleur asked him, approaching with a lovely hand extended for Fawkes to examine. 'He is _magnifique_.'

'He's friendly,' Harry assured the others as they gathered round him. He lifted Fawkes down, encouraging the phoenix to settle on his lower arm, and held him out to be appropriately admired by the group. Fawkes preened outrageously, even letting Fleur feed him a few seeds plucked off a breadroll. But when Fawkes had had enough, he gave Harry a loving caress to the cheek and took wind. Vanishing through the roof of the tent was a little showy, Harry thought fondly, but he only shook his head at Fawkes's antics and found himself a chair to settle in.

Without Fawkes to discuss, no-one was in a particularly chatty mood, so there were only small noises inside the tent, and the sound of the crowd in the stadium beyond them, reacting to whatever it was they saw as Rolvsson worked his way through the course. There was applause now and then, gasps and moans, cheers-- and the final cheer went on and on, and they all heard Dumbledore congratulate Rolvsson on passing the course. Mr Crouch came to the opening of the tent, and extended a hand. Esmee Roux of Beauxbatons was next. She drew a few deep breaths to steady herself, looped her skein of Ariadne's Red Thread about her hand ready to use, her wand clenched in the other, and followed Crouch out with her head held high.

'Breathe,' Cedric advised Harry.

'You breathe,' Harry retorted, grabbing a breadroll to shred it to pieces.

'Look at it this way, if you don't make it through, you'll get hours and hours back in spring.' Cedric slumped back in his chair, plucking at the front of his Hufflepuff yellow jumper in an unsettled way that at least reminded Harry he wasn't the only one on his nerves. 'What'll you do with all that free time?'

'I'm sure they'll find a way for me to fill it.' Harry scrunched his nose. 'If you don't make it through, you could date Cho again.'

'Maybe.' Cedric managed a smile. 'I guess that's a nice thought. But my dad would just as soon I win the Tournament instead. A Triwizard Champion is almost guaranteed a Ministry job. I'd be set.'

'S'pose that'd be nice, to not have to think about it anymore anyway.'

'S'pose so,' Cedric agreed, without any more enthusiasm than Harry.

'Awwwwww!' the crowd cried, and Dumbledore's voice boomed out. 'Disqualified,' he announced, not unsympathetically. 'Well done, madamoiselle, but unfortunately we must rule you out of bounds, and therefore out of the Tournament. Yes, Madame Maxime, take the poor dear to the tent and let her cool down. Please hold, everyone, as we re-set the course.'

Harry went cold, then hot. He was up next.

'Oh,  _chérie_!' Fleur sprang up from her seat as the large Madame Maxime appeared at the tent's entrance, her long arm about the heaving shoulders of a girl who had gone beet red and streamed sweat. Miss Applebaum came bustling in just a moment later, sending Fleur scurrying to fetch a carafe of still water, tapping it with her wand to frost the carafe over and pouring a cold glass for Esmee to gulp down as Fleur stroked her hair and tried to calm her. 'Blood boiling curse,' Miss Applebaum fumed, 'on a child this age. You're lucky the Aurors were swift with the counter, my girl, but it's going to be an uncomfortable few minutes nonetheless. Drink, drink. That's it, get it all down. Here, another.'

Harry turned a desperate stare on Cedric. Cedric tried to turn a grimace to a care-free shrug. 'Good luck?'

Mr Crouch came to the tent, doffing his hat at Madame Maxime. 'Harry,' he called. 'They're ready for you.'

Harry discovered his palms were sweaty. He drew his wand from the sheath over his shoulder, twitching straight the strings that held the charms, Fawkes's tail feather, and the adder stone. Then he shrugged out of the rest of the harness, Cedric helping, and set the sword against his chair. 'Be good,' he warned it. 'You're not to come unless I call, all right?'

'You really need to stop talking to that thing like it has ears,' Cedric advised.

'Maybe.' Harry wiped his hands on his hoodie, one after the other, and gripped his wand tight. 'Right,' he said. 'I'm ready as I'll get, sir.'

'Good luck,' Viktor wished him, and Angelina did too, and Fleur looked up from Esmee to wish him the same. Harry gave them all a queasy smile.

'Just take it slow,' Crouch told him in an undertone, as he led Harry through the gate onto the Pitch. 'Don't get overwhelmed. Take it one problem at a time.'

Harry could barely acknowledge that rather partisan word of encouragement. He could see, now, what he had been unable to see an hour ago-- the wide sand pit of the Pitch had been entirely filled in by the obstacle course. It ran in an uneven ring about the edges, then curled inward like a spiral toward the centre. Though he could scarcely absorb anything he was seeing with the roar of the crowd shattering his concentration-- though he could scarcely absorb it, he saw a pit full of water and marsh plants like the Black Lake, a tall climbing wall with canons of water spraying fitfully at it, a huge boulder sat in the middle of the sand in front of a thin spire, a strange sort of corridor of invisible walls and ceiling against which a cyclone battered ceaselessly, flinging a flurry of parchment and glittering sand. There were people standing on the course, too, a woman in a light robe who waited patiently by a table stacked with what looked like a set of child's blocks, and at the end Harry realised that the man standing waiting rather impatiently was Auror Savage, his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and he stood in a wide circle marked on the sand, in a posture that looked an awful lot like the stance he took up when he had them practise duelling in class--

'On your mark!' Dumbledore's voice recalled him to his purpose. Harry renewed his grip on his wand. 'Three, two, one...  _Go!_ '

Harry sprinted across the sand toward the course. Just like in Quidditch, the moment the game started, his focus narrowed to just the goal in front of him. All he saw was the first obstacle, the water pit. He was clearly meant to go through, not around, though he scanned the area for alternatives as he neared it. And it was something in the corner of his eye that caught his attention. Something was in the little pond. Something was moving in it. He slowed his approach, considering his options--

Well. To start with, he really didn't want to run the rest of the course with wet shoes, not on sand. Fortunately, he knew a charm. Dumbledore had used it on him twice, in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry aimed his wand at his feet, and stepped into the murky brown water. He sank a little more than he expected, enough for droplets to cling to his soles as he cautiously stepped further out. If a little less than perfect, it worked as intended. His feet trod on something solid just atop the surface. Pleased with himself, Harry walked on water.

He was just about halfway when the dark blob he'd been eyeing made its appearance. It chittered, a shrill clacking sound, then dove beneath the surface again. Harry halted, hesitated, then decided it was best to keep moving, if not rather hastily. He picked up the pace, turning his head to keep an eye on the thing as he jogged-- he would be safer at the shallow edges of the pool, but he had the same distance to travel no matter which direction he went. He heard the thing surface behind him and tensed--

Claws wrapped about his ankle, and the charm holding him above the water dissipated as if it had never been. Harry plunged into the pit, dragged down by the creature's hold on him. His frantic gasp was half water, and he choked even as the brackish brown waves closed over his head. He thrashed and kicked, trying to pry the thing loose, shake it off. Magic. He had magic. He aimed his wand, and used the last of his air to cast a stinging jinx. The creature shrieked, claws retracting, and Harry got in a good kick to its toothy face, sending it scurrying off into the depths. But Harry was still sinking, and no matter how he flailed he couldn't get back to the surface. He couldn't swim, he was going to drown, drown like Regulus-- his lungs were starved for air and his limbs were numbing--

 _Up,_ he willed his wand, nothing more coherent than that, but a force seized his whole body and propelled him upward like a rocket. He overshot the mark considerably, leaving the water with a splash and flying, for a crazed glorious moment, unaided by a broom. Then his arc peaked, and he came crashing back down, hitting legs-first and splattering flat into the sand. He coughed harshly, sucking in air, discovering he ached and that his leg in particular hurt. When he could gather himself to move, he curled on his side to reach down for his jeans, tugging up the hem to see. Bloody punctures from the creature's claws. He rolled his sock up to staunch the flow, and pushed up on his hands and knees.

Oh. The crowd. People were on their feet to peer over the rails, calling out his name, urging him on. He waved tentatively, and an approving roar of applause answered him.

First one down, then. Harry picked himself up, brushing in vain at the sand clinging to his wet clothes. He knew Dumbledore had also used a charm to wring the water out, but he couldn't recall it just now. It would have been dashed useful, he thought dolefully. Oh, well. He'd been uncomfortable before. He'd survive it.

He glanced over his shoulder at the pool with a shudder. The creature's gleaming rubbery hide bobbed above the water, fangs flashing in the sun before it vanished. And good riddance.

Harry turned back to the course ahead of him. He had to keep moving. They weren't timing his run, but the longer he took at it the more tired he'd get, using so much magic and all that physical exertion too. He dried his wand on his-- well, there was no part of him really dry enough to do the job, so he stripped the damp off the wood with his hand and shook it off. The threads at the end of the wand were wet, though curiously Fawkes's tail feather didn't seem to be. The adder stone twisted on the end of its string, and Harry rubbed a thumb on the jagged edge. They were meant to use their talismans. And adder stones were meant to see traps. On a moment's intuition, Harry gripped the stone tight, and turned back to the water pit. It didn't look any different. He rubbed at the small hole in the centre of the stone, considering it. None of the books Hermione had found for him said anything about how the stone was used, only what it was used for, and he hadn't really noticed that til just now. Why would the stone have a hole in it? It wasn't just to make it convenient for carrying; a pocket could do that. Maybe... He held it up to his eye, and looked through the hole. Nothing. But-- Fawkes. Fawkes had taken off his glasses in the tent. Harry took them off, blinking near-sightedly, and put the stone to his eye again.

The water pit was a big black blob, darker than night, but the creature swimming in it glowed. Harry watched it swim in lazy figure eights in the depths, calm now there was no intruder on its territory. Huh. So that was how it worked. Harry lowered the stone, then raised it again, just to confirm. He could see right through the sand to the creature. Interesting.

He used the stone again as he approached the next obstacle. The climbing wall. The entire wall glowed, and so did the water canons spraying it slick. The force of that water alone would batter him as he attempted to climb, but he thought it might not be just water, if it glowed through the stone. So if he knew that both the wall and the water were traps, how could he get past them? If he could get to the top, he could float down with the featherweight charm; but he didn't know yet how to levitate himself to get up the wall, not with any real control. But... but he did know a lot of shield charms, and a shield would protect him from the water whilst he climbed. Too bad the adder stone couldn't be more specific, as he was sure the glow from the wall indicated it was more than what it seemed, too. But he'd have to tackle that when it became a problem.

So Harry shielded himself and walked gingerly to the perimetre of the water canons. The first splash of water against his shield proved it would hold, that was good. Harry stashed his wand through his belt, and touched the wall. It stayed solid, that was a good start, and soon he was able to see there were hand-and-toe holds scattered up its length. Just to be safe, Harry took another gander through the adder stone, but it gave him no new specifics. Just the wall, glowing. So be it. Harry took a deep breath, and flattened his hand to the wall.

Nothing.

Feeling just a little silly, Harry brought both hands to bear, and searched for a handhold. He had to stretch for it-- clearly the wall had been designed for older, or at least taller, students-- but he could make it if he strained. He climbed as steadily as he could, fingers beginning to feel the strain of bearing all his weight, his wounded leg aching persistently, always reaching for the next-- it didn't occur to him til he'd been at it long enough to start panting for air that he didn't seem to be any closer to the top of the wall than when he'd started. Yet when he craned his neck to look ground-ward, he could see he'd come quite far.

The wall. The wall was spelled to keep getting taller even as he climbed it.

Well, now what? He was back where he'd started, not knowing how to fly over the wall without-- oh. Oh, he had an idea, but it wasn't all that pleasant. He could use the same wish he'd cast getting out of the water pit, asking his wand to send him up. But what if the wall kept growing while he was in the air? He could smack right into it and fall and he'd be right back where he'd begun. Was it worth the risk? There had to be a better way. Too bad he didn't have a Buckbeak handy, flying was a much safer--

Oh. He had an idea, all right.

The crowd was murmuring above his head as he climbed back down, jumping off the last several feet and drawing his wand. Feeling rather a fool and wishing he'd ever imagined this experiment without thousands of people to watch him at it, Harry reversed his hold on the wand and stuck the long end through his legs. It would never have worked with a regular wand, but his was so much longer it just might work.

'All right,' he told it. 'You and I are going to try this together. Madam Hooch told us the charm for flying a broom is "Up", so let's-- whooooa!'

His wand was clearly delighted to participate. Faster even than his Nimbus, Harry rose up in the air straddling his wand, zipping almost straight up. Ordinarily on a broom Harry had stirrups for his feet and the length of wood was long enough for him to balance himself better, none of which he could do with his wand, but as he clung for dear life he went up, and up, and up. But the wall, bereft of someone actually climbing it, didn't seem to be activated. Within seconds, Harry had cleared the height, and sailed over it. When he alit back on the sand on the other side, he was grinning ear to ear, and the crowd was cheering him on.

'Thanks,' he told his wand, giving it a loving stroke. 'That was brilliant... but all the same I think I'm going to stick with my broom for Quidditch.'

Next up was the large boulder. At first Harry wasn't sure whether he was meant to climb that, too, but there were instructions for this one. A small placard on a stand awaited him. Harry traded the adder stone for his glasses, bending to read the elegant script.  _Place the boulder atop the spire._ Well, at least he knew he didn't have to try anything physical this time, he clearly couldn't even attempt to lift the boulder on his own. The featherweight charm would work on this obstacle, he was sure, but that seemed a little too simple somehow. With the adder stone at his eye, Harry paced a circle around the boulder, even bending to look at the sand underneath it. Nothing. This one didn't appear to be a trap, just a normal test. But if it was that straightforward, it wouldn't really be worth much in a tournament, would it? So there was something about it that made it harder than normal. Harry turned to examine the spire. Maybe that was the difficulty? It would be one thing to levitate the boulder, but another to make it stick in place atop the spire without crushing it once the levitation was complete. You'd have to know how to make it perch there and stay there, balanced on that tiny point. Rolvsson had managed it, clearly. Harry frowned over it, tapping his fingers against his wand. There was something in the back of his mind, a memory, maybe... oddly, it was making him think of a game, a game with a ball and a stick. Something he'd played with at Crowhill, a toy-- he remembered the string breaking, and Remus had fixed it for him--

Yes. Remus had called it a Bilbo Catcher. Half the toys in Crowhill had been long broken and never replaced, but Harry had often found himself drawn to those, curious if they could be repaired. He'd always been fiddling with little bits of things, and Remus-- Professor Lupin, then-- had found him once attempting to figure out how the cup and ball toy had worked. He'd helped Harry find a string of appropriate length, that had been the trick, and then showed Harry how you had to swing the ball on the end of the string, flip it up, and get it to land in the small cup without falling back out. He'd got quite good at it, before he'd passed the toy on to another boy. He didn't have a string for a boulder, but he thought he might be able to make the cup part happen. Stepping forward, Harry plucked the spire out of the sand. It came out readily. He overturned it, and jabbed the point back down into the sand, then stood back to look at it. The wide base was hollow, and the open circle would act just like a cup to hold the rounded bottom of the boulder, just like the ball and cup. And for good measure, he pointed his wand at the sand, and Transfigured the sand to rock. It wasn't a very complicated Transfiguration, since it was only changing something to another state of itself, but he was moderately satisfied with his effort. Then it was only a matter of casting the featherweight charm on the boulder, and guiding it to land gently on the cup. He held his breath as he released the charm, fully prepared for everything to come tumbling down noisily, but it held. 'Ha!' Harry said, quite chuffed. The crowd liked it too, clapping for him, and Harry gave another wave in thanks. They liked that quite a lot, and a cheer rose chanting his name. Harry blushed, scratching at his overheated neck, and trotted along to the next obstacle trying to pretend that hadn't happened.

He'd reached the cyclone. It was whirling along quite noisily, once he got close enough to hear it. The invisible walls containing it had openings at the front and the far end, clearly indicating the path Harry was meant to follow. He could see how Rolvsson's leviathan hide would come in handy at this obstacle, it would protect him from all those projectiles flying about in the wind. He wished Fleur luck getting through with just a necklace that made people like you. But the adder stone wasn't especially helpful now, either, since the whole thing was glowing and he didn't really need to be told it was a trap, as the trap was completely obvious. Once he went into that corridor, he'd be blown apart.

So what were his options? A shield was necessary, obviously. But he'd also have a hard time walking in there, even if he stayed close to the walls. A rope, maybe? If he had something to help pull him through, and keep him going in the right direction, since he wasn't going to be able to open his eyes in there with so much sand blowing about. Yes, that would work. It was funny, that some of these obstacles weren't really all that difficult, so long as you could think your way through them. But then, it had been like that too, his first year when he'd had to get through the obstacles Dumbledore and the Hogwarts' staff had placed between Quirrellmort and the Philosopher's Stone. Half of it wasn't even about magic, it was about keeping your cool under pressure and just being clever. But, too, he supposed many Purebloods didn't grow up playing with Muggle toys, and so wouldn't be able to think of moving the boulder like that, and they weren't used to having to think their way through things when magic solved so many problems with a snap of the fingers. If you had been raised a Muggle and were used to coming up with your own solutions, magic was just another tool, not the solution itself.

Harry shed his shirt-- the crowd were murmuring again, some even laughing as if it were a joke-- and replaced his hoodie. Dobby would have his head for ruining a shirt, but nonetheless Harry ripped his tee in half. He tore strips from one bit, and braided them swiftly together, glad he'd watched Ginny do it enough times to know how it was done. Then it was only a matter of growing it bigger and longer, and threading it through the corridor. That took a bit of creativity, and he wished he had Viktor's bow, so he could fire an arrow through and take his rope with it. But a spell Tonks had taught him would work just as well. Harry trotted to the far side of the corridor, and buried the end of his rope in solid rock the same as he'd done with the spire, then went back to the other end, stood in the opening, and cast the  _Accio_ summoning charm on the free end of the rope. It came zooming through the corridor, and Harry raised a hand just in time to catch it. At a cautionary thought, he wrapped it about his waist, figuring if he fell at least he wouldn't lose hold of it in there. Then he tied the rest of the shirt about his face, to protect his mouth and nose and eyes all at once, and then there was nothing for it but to get started.

It was almost impossibly hard. The force of the wind was even worse than he'd imagined. Blind, he had no sense of forward, backward, or sideways, only that the wind buffeted him in all directions at once. The sting of the sand against his face even through the fabric of his tee was like pellets cracking on his skin. It took all his strength to haul himself along the rope, going hand over hand and only barely inching forward. He lost his footing more than once, and once was blown back into the wall so hard he banged his head and sat there dazed for long moments. It finally occurred to him that he'd make a smaller target if he just stayed down, one side protected by the wall, and so he crawled the rest of the way like that, slow as molasses and struggling to breathe as the wind ripped all oxygen away from him.

Then suddenly he was out, and he tumbled flat on his face in the sand. He clawed the sand-clogged tee away from his face, gasping in lungsful of clean air, waiting for the shakes to leave his throbbing forearms and shoulders, his hands that were cramped from clinging so hard and so long to the rope. He was desperately thirsty. If he could have Transfigured himself some water, he'd have done it, regardless of the consequences.

'Get up, Harry!'

'Come on, Potter, you can do it!'

'Harry, come on, lad!'

The crowd. The crowd were all packed to the edges of the stands, hollering his name, urging him on. The weird white noise of the cyclones was fading and he could hear the words, all of them imploring him onward. He had to finish. He had to finish so they'd let him rest.

When he managed to get his knees under him, the crowd cheered. They were roaring in delight when he stumbled upright on both feet, though he struggled to balance himself for a moment. Onward. The next obstacle was only a few feet ahead, the woman waiting at a table. She smiled at him as he staggered to her. She was a bit plump, with thin dark hair settled limply about her round shoulders, and robes of pale yellow patterned with autumn leaves that didn't flatter her sallow skin.

'Hullo, dear, I'm Bertha Jorkins,' she said. 'Very clever, aren't you? Well done getting this far.'

'Hi,' Harry croaked. He coughed to clear his throat, and recalled his manners enough to offer a hand. 'Harry, er, Potter. Harry Potter.'

'Oh, I'm very well aware who you are, dear.' Bertha's pale eyes gleamed in the sunlight, causing Harry to squint. There was something wrong with her eyes, he thought-- or, more likely, something wrong with his. He took off his glasses to rub hard at them, trying to clear them of the sand that had got through his tee.

'Only a few more to go,' Jorkins told him. 'Step up now, that's right. We're going to play a little game.'

'Er, all right.' Harry replaced his glasses and sidled up to the table. A set of blocks were laid out, just as he'd thought when he'd surveyed the course earlier. 'What's the game, Miss?'

'A memory game.' She came to stand beside him, pointing out the six different colours of blocks, and the runes carved into the front face of each. 'You have sixty seconds to memorise these. Are you ready?'

'Wait--' Harry blew out a breath. 'Okay.'

She produced a small hourglass from her pocket, and set it on the edge of the table. 'Begin,' she told him, and overturned it.

Harry braced himself on the ledge of the table, staring unblinking down at the blocks. He was decent at memory games-- although the board games at Crowhill had rarely had all their pieces. Quickly he discerned there were a limited number of runes, none of which were familiar to him, though Hermione could probably have told him all about them. He supposed he didn't really need to know what they meant to remember where they were. The colours didn't match up to the runes, which maybe meant both were important. Dark blue, bronze, green, silver, red, gold-- Harry realised they were the House colours. He noted which were closest to which corner, all messily jumbled together but there was a bit of a grouping of silver there, the blues were mostly scattered to the far corners, the Hufflepuff yellows made a sort of figure T just off-centre...

'Time,' Jorkins said. 'Hands back, please.' When Harry obeyed, she waved her wand over the table, and the blocks all jumped up and tumbled and clattered in a fall in a new jumble. 'You have four minutes to replace them as they were,' she said.

Merlin's tits, as Sirius would say. Harry licked dry lips, and nodded his understanding. She overturned the hourglass, and Harry reached for the nearest blocks--

Her hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and pushed downward with surprising strength, slamming him face-first into the table. Ears ringing, Harry struggled, shock making him sluggish. Was he meant to fight back? Was this part of the test? Jorkins was much stronger than she looked, holding him in place with her body pressed to his, grinding his face down on the blocks. Harry heard the snick of a blade, saw it coming silvery and wickedly sharp from the corner of his eyes a moment before a keen line of pain seared him from forehead to chin. He cried out--

'Get off him!' It was Savage, wand out as he came sprinting near, and with a thunderous blast blew Jorkins clear away from Harry. Harry sprawled to the sand as Jorkins flew several feet before tumbling to a stop, but when she landed, she wasn't Jorkins any more. Or not all Jorkins. Her dark hair was rapidly paling to blond, the ends vanishing upward to a short cut just above the ears, and her curves were fading away to a man's sharp shoulders and long legs. The man shed the robe as he climbed back to his feet, throwing a vicious hex at Savage that separated the Auror from Harry just as he bent over to check on him.

'Barty,' Savage gasped, and then his face hardened. 'Traitor,' he growled, and then his arm snapped out, vivid red barbs leaving the tip of his wand and exploding the sand around the man who had been Jorkins, who quickly shielded himself and responded with a curse of his own. Harry scrambled under the table and out the other side, fumbling his wand into his hand. Savage was by far a better trained and experienced dueller than Harry, but maybe he could help with a distraction? Harry smeared the blood dripping into his eyes, mind frantically skipping between half-baked thoughts-- he thought-- he thought--

' _Accio_ knife,' he shouted, and the man who had been Jorkins howled in rage as the knife jumped out of his grip, Harry's blood with it, and sped across the sands to Harry's outstretched hand. Harry waited no longer than it took to wrap his fingers about it. He sprang to his feet and ran.

'Harry! Get behind me!' It was Mr Crouch, running onto the sand with his wand, and there were several more running in from all sides. Tonks, who had been watching from the gate, and Kingsley Shacklebolt and Snape and even Dumbledore was running, though he was swiftly outpaced by younger witches and wizards. Crouch grabbed Harry by the shoulders and thrust him into the shelter of his taller form, only for Harry to be grabbed by Sirius, who had vaulted the edge of the stands and landed with a hard crunch, coming at Harry with horrible fear in his face. But there was more than just the man who had been Jorkins. They had appeared from the shadows-- they had come in from all directions, and the Quidditch Pitch was turning into a pitched battle as the Aurors paired off to duel with the enemy swarming them. The screams of the crowd rose to a terrified wail as they realised something was very wrong and that they couldn't Apparate away to safety. 'Get Harry to safety!' Crouch told Sirius, 'get him back to--'

Then his face contorted, and he fell to his knees. Sirius yanked Harry away as Harry tried to help. 'Leave him, Harry.'

'No, he's hurt!'

It was the Jorkins man. He'd broken past Savage and now grinned with unholy delight. ' _Crucio!_ ' he cast again, and Mr Crouch screamed as he arched in a tortured seizure. Sirius didn't try to help, but shoved Harry away and dragged him toward the shelter of the tapestried stands.

'Use the emergency Portkey,' Sirius ordered, digging in Harry's pockets and thrusting it into Harry's hands. 'Now, Harry!'

'We need to help him--'

'Now, Harry!' Sirius evaded his attempt to squirm away, and the Portkey flattened to Harry's hand. He felt a familiar jerk at his navel, and the Pitch dissolved.

A minute later he was spat out onto grass, rolling down a hillside until he skittered to a stop in a ditch. He clawed his way out, breathless, nauseated, but though he heaved a few times nothing came up from his empty stomach. He lay with his cheek pressed to the cool earth, head swirling, til he heard feet coming toward him, and fought his way upright, waving the knife in his left hand and the Portkey in the other-- a tube of toothpaste, as it happened, which spat out a very threatening squidge of minty white.

But he didn't need either the knife or the toothpaste. It was Regulus, staring at Harry in surprise. He'd been Portkeyed home.

'You're hurt,' Regulus said. He gave himself a shake, and came to help Harry to his feet. 'Let's get you inside. Dobby!'

The house elf appeared with a puff of air. And immediately set up a wail. 'Harry Potter is bleeding!' he cried. 'Harry Potter must not die!'

'I'm not going to die,' Harry said hoarsely, but Dobby was in full mourning, and there was nothing for it other than to follow him back to the cottage and let Dobby tend to the cut on his face and the other scrapes and bumps he acquired during the Task. He told Regulus everything that had happened, only because he couldn't persuade Regulus to contact the school until he'd heard for himself what had happened, but eventually Regulus did agree to try and contact someone by Firecall. He was still at it when the pops of humans Apparating into the front yard brought Harry to his feet, Not-Jorkins's dagger in his hand.

'Reg? Harry?' The kitchen door burst open, and Charlie Weasley came running in, though he pulled up sharpish at the sight of Harry and Dobby there, Dobby now brandishing a spatula at him as well. 'Thank Morgana,' Charlie said, and came toward him at a more moderate pace then. 'It's over,' he said. 'We got a few of them, the rest fled. Are you all right? That cut looks nasty.'

'It's fine,' Harry dismissed it. 'Mr Crouch? Sirius? The others? And who was that man?'

'Sit down. Dobby? Would you mind setting on a tea? And something stronger for me, if you've got it.' Charlie joined Harry at the small table, sprawling back in the other chair with a huff. 'We failed you,' he said then. 'I'm sorry. We thought we had adequate protections, but they got through. If I had to guess, Crouch let them in.'

'Mr Crouch? But he tried to help me.'

'Not Crouch Sr. That was Crouch Jr. Barty Crouch Jr, his son.'

'His son.' Harry shook his head, trying to grasp that. 'He hated him,' he said. 'Barty. He was torturing Mr Crouch, and he... he looked like he liked it.' He looked up from his hands. 'I thought Mr Crouch's son was dead? His wife and his son died right after my parents.'

'That's what we all thought. We may never know what really happened.'

Harry's stomach sank. 'Mr Crouch is dead, isn't he.'

'Harry Potter,' Dobby interrupted, tugging at his sleeve to give him a steaming cup. Harry gulped without checking first what it was, but the silky sugary rush of hot pumpkin juice flooded him with warmth. And then the flood reached up to his head and he leant over the table, bracing his head on his arms as the flood turned into hard shakes. He vaguely felt Charlie's hand on his shoulder, and Dobby rubbing soothing circles on his knee.

The door came banging open again, this time admitting Sirius and Tonks. Sirius barrelled straight at Harry, going to his knees to envelop Harry in a hug. Harry buried his face into Sirius's neck.

'Who else?' he asked, choking back the wobbles that threatened and straightening up the moment he felt able. Sirius smiled sadly at him, before turning his attention to the cut on Harry's face. Dobby had sealed the edges together with a paste of his own concoction and taped over it with bits of bandage. It didn't hurt, exactly, but tingled, sort of, and Harry could feel it pulling with his grimace.

'I'll kill him,' Sirius said. 'I'll cut off both his hands for daring to touch you and I'll stuff them down his traitorous throat.'

Harry ignored that. 'Who else, Sirius? Tonks, Charlie? Who else was killed?' The adults all exchanged long looks, as if Harry couldn't very well read exactly what was going on in those glances. 'Tell me,' Harry commanded them, and Tonks blinked at him in surprise, but Sirius caved.

'No-one else was killed,' Sirius told him. 'Wounded, yes, and they lost a couple of their men, but I don't think they got what they came for. Barty Jr got away. But empty-handed. That was quick thinking, taking the knife.'

'Speaking of.' Tonks lifted it from the table, holding it gingerly by the end of the handle. 'We'll destroy it,' she told Sirius. 'Carefully.'

'You know blood magic is--'

'Very carefully,' she promised. 'I'll go right now.'

Regulus had heard their voices and come back in, watching from the door til Tonks passed him by, headed for their Floo. 'Is that what they were after?' he asked. 'Just Harry's blood?'

'I'd assume. Barty Jr had to have used Polyjuice to get in as Bertha Jorkins. Should've guessed then it was a hoax,' Sirius said bitterly, giving Harry's hair a stroke and then rising to pour himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey over the cold box. 'She was none too clever at school. A couple of years ahead of us, but she was always after Jamie-- hell, half the girls in the school were. I assumed they put her up for a role in the Task because she'd be the only one spareable for a full day off, but she'd be the perfect stooge. Who'd suspect Bumble Bee of anything suspicious? Even if you found her where she wasn't meant to be, you'd shrug it off.'

'But why send that many just to get the blood?' Regulus ventured further into the kitchen, dropping a cool hand to Harry's shoulder from behind. 'If they'd really only wanted the blood, it would have been safer to send in just Barty, and have him get away as soon as he could.'

'The rest of his crowd were a back-up,' Charlie guessed. 'In case Barty couldn't get away.'

'Or they were a distraction,' Regulus corrected. 'To keep your Aurors concentrated on what was in front of them, not what was happening behind their backs.'

'You think there was another hit, timed for the Task as well?' Sirius considered this, swirling whiskey in his rapidly depleting glass. He shot back the last swallow and put the glass in the sink. 'I'll Firecall Tonks at the Ministry. If there was another attack, they'll know by now.'

'Some place unprotected,' Regulus said. His reddish hair stirred as he gazed out the window, Harry saw as he craned his neck back to look, but he didn't think Regulus saw anything out there. He was looking back, back to the life he'd lived as a Death Eater. 'And some place where they could conserve limited resources. They wouldn't split two groups up where they'd both be equally vulnerable... the Forest, maybe, or--'

'The school,' Charlie said, and he was on his feet running after Sirius for the Floo.

'The Forest,' Harry echoed, something clicking into place. 'I saw that man before. Barty Jr. In the Forest, he was one of the men who took me that day.' Regulus sank into the chair Charlie had abandoned, and Harry chewed at his thumbnail. 'He was Mr Crouch's son. He said once he didn't talk about them. His wife and his son. I thought it must just be because it made him sad.'

'I suppose it would have done,' Regulus said quietly. 'If he'd learnt what his son had become.'

'Become?'

'A Death Eater. I remember Barty. He was one of us.'

The wobbles threatened again. Harry ran a hand through his hair, shedding sand to the table and the tiles. 'He's not a Death Eater now, though. He's one of Tom's people.'

'So what would Tom want in the school?'

'Dunno. He didn't seem to want anything before-- when they brought him back in the Chamber, I mean. There was just a lot of snotty speeches and then the fight and then they ran away...' Harry rubbed at the sore half of his face, until Dobby pointedly cleared his throat and distracted Harry with a plate of biscuits. 'I'm not hungry,' Harry told him.

'Mr Black made them,' Dobby said. 'Perhaps Harry Potter will try them so Mr Black will believe they are good? He does not believe Dobby when Dobby tells him,' he confided to Harry in a whisper that would have carried across the Great Hall at supper time.

If Regulus could have blushed, he would have done. He looked greatly embarrassed by this detail, which, Harry realised, meant Dobby was telling the truth. So he took a biscuit, breaking it in half and nibbling on the gingerbread's head. 'It is good,' he said, and mustered up a smile. 'Really.'

'Thank you,' Regulus mumbled, and attempted, so far as Harry could tell, to vanish into the wallpaper. One hand went automatically to his chest, fumbling for the locket he'd used to wear, and falling back to his lap when he didn't find it hanging there.

'Your locket,' Harry said. 'Or not your locket, but the original locket.  _His_ locket. It was a Horcrux. Remus said, Remus said Tom was trying to find all the Horcruxes. Reuniting them. Maybe the locket has been at Hogwarts all along?'

'I don't know,' Regulus said helplessly. He leant his head back on the wall, mouth moving bitterly in self-loathing. 'What use am I if I can't remember this one thing? The most important thing.'

'Is my only use to fight them? What will be the point of me if I ever win?'

'Harry--'

'No. It's not about being useful. Or if it is, I don't like it, and I want to change it. Don't tell me that again. People aren't here to be useful.'

'Harry,' Regulus said again, pale eyes on his.

Harry ate the other half of the gingerbread. 'Either they found it or they didn't. We can't change that. There's still the ring, the one Remus stole from Tom. We should warn the Aurors. They have to hide it better. As well as anything's ever been hidden.' He smooshed a crumb against the table's wood. 'Mr Crouch was trying to help me.'

'If people aren't here to be of use,' Regulus said, 'then they're also not guilty for what others do for them. Crouch tried to help you because he chose to. Because he cared enough about you to do it.'

'And now he's dead.' Harry dropped the next biscuit back to the plate. 'Dobby, sorry, I'm, uh... I'd like a bath, if you don't mind.'

Dobby nodded several times. 'Would Harry Potter like bubbles?'

'No. I don't know.' Harry rubbed his face again, til Dobby clucked and pulled Harry's hand away from the cut. 'Tell Sirius where I'm at, if he asks,' he told Regulus, and stood to trudge up the stairs.

 

 

 

'I don't think he should go back,' Regulus was saying in low tones.

Harry stopped before he could lower a foot onto the creaky stair. Instinct was warning him. He pressed close to the wall, sitting slowly on the steps, his house coat tucked between his knees. He inched his way down, stooping to peer below the ceiling of the first floor, angling himself til he could see through to the sitting room.

Regulus and Sirius were there, and Charlie still, and Tonks had returned. They'd been joined by Lyall-- Harry had heard him leaving his bedroom and going downstairs while he was in the bath-- Scrimgeour, the Chief Auror, stood sipping from a cup by the window, and Snape was there, too, looking weary to the bone, and seated beside him on the sofa was Dumbledore, who looked, if possible, even wearier.

'I agree,' Sirius said.

'You are within your rights, certainly, to withdraw him from Hogwarts.' Dumbledore sighed into his tea. 'Were he any other boy, I might even agree.'

'He's thirteen,' Sirius retorted hotly. 'He's a thirteen year old  _boy_ who's just watched another person killed--'

'Because of him,' Regulus interjected. He held up a hand at the round of protests this occasioned. 'He thinks that. He all but said it. He's carrying these deaths on his shoulders. He feels responsible.'

'So we'll tell him he's not,' Tonks said.

'Have you ever tried to tell any boy his age something he doesn't want to hear?' Lyall asked her. 'He won't want to listen to sense.'

'We could protect him better here,' said a voice that was only vaguely familiar. The clump-stump sound of a man who had only one real leg brought to mind the sinister one-eyed stare of Mad-Eye Moody. Sure enough, the old Auror appeared crossing the room, to stand before the merrily burning fire in the hearth. 'The school's clearly vulnerable. The Tournament's an invitation to disaster.'

'An invitation to the remedy for disaster, as well,' Dumbledore reminded them. 'I believe Harry is doing quite well at exactly the purpose for which we designed this Tournament. I have noticed young Viktor Krum in Harry's company of late--'

'Fantastic, Karkaroff's got his spy on the inside,' Mad-Eye growled.

'Not to mention Harry has shown himself to be a dab hand at magic, capable of calling on both great power and great intellect.'

'Tricks,' Mad-Eye grumbled, glaring down at the fire. 'Tricks and luck, if you ask me.'

'No-one did,' Sirius told flatly. 'And as we're discussing unsolicited opinions, Alastor, kindly remember that insulting my son in my own home is liable to get you a kick in what's left of your ass.'

'It's too much pressure,' Regulus said. 'He wasn't put on this earth to perform for us, to save us, to-- redeem our failures.'

'According to the prophecy, he was.'

Everyone looked at Dumbledore, then. Harry twined the belt of his robe about his fist, pulling it tight until his skin whitened.

'But he is still a boy,' Dumbledore added then, even softer. 'A boy who deserves a childhood. His full measure of years at school with friends, to study what he will need for the war to come, yes, but also to learn what he will need to be a full-grown man, a good man. To remove him from Hogwarts now would, I fear, stunt him. Deny him the normal joys of life that all should experience. I would not have him be a soldier at the expense of all else. And, to be perfectly blunt, I think he would not go quietly if we tried to force him. He has shown great resourcefulness and a very clear expression of his priorities before.'

And how, Harry thought, staring down at his white knuckles. If he had to, he would fight. If he had to, he would make them listen to him. If he could only figure out what it was he wanted.

Because just now he wasn't truly sure. There was a part of him, a hurting and terribly sad part, that knew more people would die if he returned to Hogwarts. The Slytherin voice in his head told him people would die anyway, because he hadn't started the war and he wasn't the one so keen on fighting it again. But he might limit the damage, if he wasn't at a school, if he stayed here in this small house, never to venture outside, never to meet new people who might be marked simply for knowing him. He didn't know what to do. He might wish for someone to just decide for him what he had to do-- if all the adults weren't currently arguing amongst themselves, unable to be certain what would really work.

'You spent months worried he was harming himself,' Regulus argued.

Sirius looked troubled. 'He says he didn't. I have to believe him. He promised me.'

'You promised me. I promised you. We might even have meant those promises, til that one more thing came along and the burden was too heavy.'

'Potter will not be weak,' Snape said. 'Not like we were.'

No-one, it seemed, had an answer for that.

'Potter signed himself up for the Tournament,' Scrimgeour said finally. 'As far as I understand the bylaws, that's a binding magical contract. He has to compete until he is eliminated.'

'He didn't complete today's Task. We'll have to do it again?' Sirius groaned.

'I imagine the Gaming Committee will rule we must,' Dumbledore nodded. 'Especially given that one of the obstacles was manned by a Death Eater. Or, perhaps, we might credit all the Champions for their preparation and proceed to the fourth round with all seven. It will, I am sure, be a contentious discussion. Not to mention an expensive one.'

'So nothing changes,' Regulus concluded, with a rare show of temper. 'We're all just helpless in the face of bureaucracy, then. How convenient that will be for Tom Riddle.'

No-one stopped Regulus storming out, and indeed they began to argue amongst themselves all over again. Harry sat gnawing at his thumbnail. He didn't think to move, and so Regulus came upon him there a moment later, when he stomped to a stop a few steps below Harry. His shoulders lifted stiffly, then fell, dismayed.

'You heard,' he said.

Harry licked a small tang of blood from his lip. 'I won't,' he said.

Regulus sank down onto the step beside him. 'Won't what, Harry.'

'Hurt myself. There are... there are bad things... but I wouldn't. I haven't.'

Regulus took Harry's hand. He held it there between them, turning it toward the light so the bleeding quick of Harry's nailbed could be seen. Then turned the other way, so Harry could see how Regulus's, too, had been chewed down, long before he died.

'You didn't hurt yourself, though. Voldemort did. He killed you.'

'It wasn't not a suicide.' Regulus's head stayed bent, his thumb slowly stroking over Harry's. 'You must forgive us seeing it behind everything, Harry. Our parents, the war, we... let's just say we know all too well what it looks like.'

Harry covered Regulus's hand with his free one. 'I won't. I won't... be weak. I'll fight. I won't give in.'

'And if you fight so hard the result is the same?' Regulus's hand warmed just a little, sandwiched between Harry's, his grip slowly tightening til it hurt. 'I don't want to lose you,' Regulus said hoarsely. 'You've come to be... you've all come to be... so important to me.'

'Family,' Harry said. 'Yes. I know. That's why I'll fight.'

'You humble me.'

'I'm just a kid.' Harry squeezed his hand. 'Whatever some stupid prophecy says. We're all just... we're all just us. And all we can do is try, right?'

Regulus raised dry, red eyes to his. He nodded.

'Okay,' Harry said. 'You think Dobby would bring us hot chocolates and more of your biscuits? I'm famished.'

'Dobby hears!' squeaked an eager voice behind them, and despite himself Harry laughed. Regulus's shoulders shook as he bent over his knees, but he was smiling when he sat upright again.

'Of course Dobby does,' Harry agreed. 'Bring some for yourself, too, Dobby. Let's sit up in the attic for a while. We can work on that puzzle we never finished at summer. Everything else... everything else can wait til morning, I think.' He stood, and offered an arm to help Regulus to his feet. 'Extra cream and peppermints,' he requested. 'So Regulus can smell it, even if he can't taste it.'

Impulsively, or maybe not so impulsively at all, Regulus hugged him. Harry let his head rest against the still chest for a moment. But only a moment.

'Come on,' he said, and led the way upstairs.


End file.
